There was this thing with parsley and lemon that i never knew,
Before jasmine bloomed below my moonless nights.
It came as a surprise when i learned the moistened bundles,
Green of scented lashings, took to whipping saintly flesh.
Holy was the root beneath the sacrificial lamb, white and rubbed of
Tasteless degraded dirt, growing in rows facing artificial south.
"Baaa-baaa", cried the appetite for its feeding in the field.
"Baaa-baaa", scorned the lemon lamb.
Seeds squeezed free as yellow screams dripped through divine ears.
Bitter acid, holy ghost, neutralize our sins.
"Nothing will be wasted, nor forgotten!" claimed
The shears. as hands of holy citrus, clip-clipped-buzzzzzzz.
Tremendous clouds of earthly fluff, not hung high as the
Gods do for fear, lay beside the feasted lamb of peasants parsley
Naked; purged; they gathered in stinging holy hands,
Around their false and bleeding christ , fictionalized death, fabricated life.
Lemon seeds i now spit for sport and leaves of parsley i keep pruned
From their rocky stalk. the roots i boil and use to fill a truffled stew.
