They’re taking pictures of the man from God;
I dearly hope his cassock’s clean. For quod
A soul is he apart from common gent,
Whose halo better shimmer, never bent.
But what of all those wilful, wayward priests?
Do you suppose some are perverse like beasts,
And choose to swap their blood for wine and drink,
The same as you did switch your blood for ink?
You wrote to me great notes appearing true,
With trust, I thought of them without purlieus,
Particularly with all your willing words,
Which rose so high at night with all the birds.
When once they circled ‘round my thoughts and head,
It’s now the priest who gives to me the bread,
And asks of me to drink the blood of Christ.
Alone before the house of God, enticed
I am to shed these old regrets and pain,
And I allow no more myself the strain:
But I not knew a side or part of you,
Except, alas, by writ and ink accrued.
The notes you left for me I shall not read;
Inside the text between the words you bleed.
And soon I will forget what was ne’er there,
Your words are now but ash and dust in air,
‘Tis all that’s left: The song I’ve sung from breath
Yet ceased. I breath to dodge and steer out death.
If you are born with love for wrote and writ,
My urge, alert, and message: Shun the wit,
And heed the heart of such who need not tears,
For letters don’t convey like voice to ears.
They’re taking pictures of the man from God; I dearly hope his cassock’s clean. For quod A soul is he apart from common gent, Whose halo better shimmer, never bent. But what of all those wilful, wayward priests? Do you suppose some are perverse like beasts, And choose to swap their blood for wine and drink, The same as you did switch your blood for ink? You wrote to me great notes appearing true, With trust, I thought of them without purlieus, Particularly with all your willing words, Which rose so high at night with all the birds. When once they circled ‘round my thoughts and head, It’s now the priest who gives to me the bread, And asks of me to drink the blood of Christ. Alone before the house of God, enticed I am to shed these old regrets and pain, And I allow no more myself the strain: But I not knew a side or part of you, Except, alas, by writ and ink accrued. The notes you left for me I shall not read; Inside the text between the words you bleed. And soon I will forget what was ne’er there,
Your words are now but ash and dust in air, ‘Tis all that’s left: The song I’ve sung from breath Yet ceased. I breath to dodge and steer out death. If you are born with love for wrote and writ, My urge, alert, and message: Shun the wit, And heed the heart of such who need not tears, For letters don’t convey like voice to ears.
Forgot the details. This is an adaptation I wrote of Flynn's song in iambic pentameter and heroic couplets.
Forgot the details. This is an adaptation I wrote of Flynn's song in iambic pentameter and heroic couplets.
That's really nice. Thank you for posting it!
That's really nice. Thank you for posting it!