A Song for L Cohen
It's fun when praise is done. It's cold and razed when broken. Hallelujah. She rejoices in Jerusalem dress, gathers her Israeli hemmed forces; She's not seen the sun shine.
She paunches Markiplier the gamer and hears his night cries. Maybe her star numbers call us by name, courting with love, but all we've learned is how to quick draw ya.
Our proud Mother, her endless Voice, and every Hallelujah was breath drawing to shoot. We humbly exterminate the casted people, thrusting evil doves into us. A singing Harp in cheer. Hallelujah. Remember how we rhythmically move in us?
She hides in clouds, prepares a mountain with tear sprinkles and told me still when to till her verdant knoll. She feeds the caged bird and hears little crow howls cold and broken. Hallelujah. She rides the bucking horse; is not satisfied with a man's leg, and knows not victory in love's march.
We fear, hope, and grant merciful praises but live alone with a marbled Zion flag. Hallelujah! A high room walked with blessed Rapunzel. Baked peace, wants, and the best wheat on our lips.
She orders fast takeout, brokers deals, and cuts Samson's goldilocks, all from a mainland kitchen chair. She weaves snow wool from the falling ash, baths in moonlight and glows tawny from quickdraw fire. She weatherproofs our faith with winter's bite. And sends fourth, preaches fifth, exhales minor and lifts major -- A baffled Queen commanding.
She and Jacob wages in jurisprudence but we can't pay the music bills, can we? She did no one but keeps a secret progression that leads to Lehman's judgement. Hallelujah.
