"templar" poems
Homonym creation by son dark terror
Dark sun templar strides empty
He was born in the sewers
Preaching to orphans
Selling them drugs
Crash landing Foreign Exchange
Export/Extract Blood/Money
Lawyer no habla ingles
Wife beating wincest victim/winner
Always liked the devil better
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 8:47 PM UTC
when i heard about it,
when i heard of “free art:”
i thought of free bread and wine,
and celtic sirens,
i laughed though... you made the earth
so ******* boring we all wanted to become astronauts.
when art became free we tried to moralise
drinking wine (as a portent of richness)
and eating bread (as a portent of the russian revulsion),
i bought my art.. and waited for the ones who
discouraged it complaining buying their bread “well fed.”
the celtic sirens hung on though, singing softer and softer
but more prone to the acid tongues dragging the democrats into
a hope of kings and village kindred elders,
but i still didn’t hope for free artistry that was akin to circus,
caged the gypsy have i?
i have, but i did not warrant free food or free aquas of variation,
i simplified freeing the demands with the demands freed into excess,
well... if i were kingly i’d still have provided free bread and wine
rather than music and the curbing the excesses of lyricists;
making music free just discouraged all originality, all creativity,
it just became a realism of a struggled acting -
i feel cheated having missed the antics of britannia in
the 1960's and '70's like it was greek and roman without
the epileptics of watching a documentary on trans-sexualisation
of brazilians and ******** disco to gag on an excess of flashy lights
just to sell lipstick... and have these quasi-epileptic shivers
without having an opposing opinion to counter the freely stated & fluxed.
i guess my convulsions were due to the fact that the men
didn’t call it either homosexuality nor trans-sexuality,
and that i was actually looking at two dodos talking, meaning
i was seeing the extinction of the human race through the ****
meaning i was watching the knights templar idol, baphomet,
realised 2000 years after the crucifixion in that crown of thorn dreams,
perfected in thailand... of all places;
that actually beats the identification of ibn saud as the dajjal,
moving further east of mecca than riyadh and
the assassination attempt within the framework of muhammad’s hadith of ‘no entry’ into mecca by the dajjal.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 11:17 PM UTC
Am a Templar Knight whose allegiance is to Our Lord Jesus Christ
Sir Thomas de Charney is my name, Master of the fortress in Gaza
Was compelled to quill an account of an assault on the town of Ludd
My heart was also dazed and enamored by a young woman evermore
We left Gaza late in the day; I took 40 of my best knights with me
Fully clad in mail and helmets, we dashed long swords in scabbards
Short swords made at the ready to perlustrate with a days provisions
We headed east prepared to do battle, for God and for the cause
We approached Ludd; saw billowing smoke; heard strangled screams
I dispatched 35 knights throughout the municipality in groups of 5 each
My orders were; execute requisite to save townspeople from slaughter
An appurtenance to the initial order: no parley with these infidels
Before dismissing my men, I saw smolder swell left flank of the border
Saw a hovel, the thatch was burning out of control and spreading apace
Around the corner were three enemy soldiers crowding over someone
Until the last few years, I knew not what **** was; the worst in a man
Despite noise of city under siege, these ******** were intoxicated in sin
The remaining five knights accompanied me and covered the perimeter
I dismounted Petra, clutched the hilt of my long sword, made approach
The three heathen sensed my bearing and turned to meet their death
Then I saw her face and was transfixed
I would yield no prisoners
Today there would be justice for this woman
I pray for swiftness of divine retribution
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To be continued…………
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 1:54 PM UTC
How stand thee tall, judgemental,now? How dost thou choose thy bread?
When all around thee, finger pointers, leer and shake their head.
Have you found a sphere of comfort here, whilst perched upon thy throne?
Has it ever really bothered you, that esconced, you're quite alone?
You live with dire restrictions, imposed so harshly by the Court
And as socially, classed an isolate, it affects you more than ought.
Though recompensed so generously you feel the pressure bound
Because each and every day your judgement rendered, must be sound.
Each utterance decreed by you must hold good Law intoned
Or the Brotherhood Knights Templar shall see you thoroughly dethroned.
A Pillar of Society, though one who stands forlorn
Is the Judge who'se daily client's words are negatively sworn.
The Judge who waits expectantly for that ray of light to shine
But is constantly bombarded by the tarnished shade of crime.
The loneliness is tangible and corrosive wear extreme
For the man who sits in judgement and who'se wisdom must be seen.
Marshalg
Pukehana
13 January 2014
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 5:31 AM UTC
Shhhhh - Titanic was Sunk by a Bilderberg
Albino rabbis, the Illuminati,
Protocols of the Elders of Zion -
The evidence seemed a little spotty
‘Til a radio guy had us wonderin’ and sighin’
Fluoridation by the New World Order
Backed by the Trilateral Commission
A scheme to open our southern border
To crop circles – that’s his suspicion
Area 51, the Templar Knights
FEMA lurking in the Bohemian Grove
Perfidious Rothschilds through menace and fright
Guarding a Jewish-Viking treasure trove
Poor Newfoundland is Occupied by ****** rats
Who scheme in secret tunnels beneath St. John’s
Brewing magic potions in Macbethian vats
In Rodentian rituals from the Age of Bronze
The Priory of Sion, runes, swastikas, the Vril
Roswell and the Thule Society
No wonder the air is darkly chill:
We all live in a conspiracy!
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 3:54 PM UTC
Proem
After Sir Thomas recovered the Spear of Destiny and returned it to the Pope at the Vatican in Rome, he remained there for several months serving His Excellency, attending meetings, and recovering from several minor injuries sustained while recapturing the Spear that pierced the side of Jesus the Messiah. Sir Thomas could have stayed as a guest of the pope in one of their lush suites, but he chose the bare walls of a guest bedroom at the local Knights Templar castle. The pope then called upon him for his next assignment: Leave Rome immediately, by boat, again, back to Constantinople. “Head off a Scot by the name of Sir Robert Bruce, whom our intel indicates has a map and is currently on his way in search for the Holy Grail. Sir Robert is a stubborn ally. You will help Sir Robert, but convince him that the chalice of Jesus belongs here in Rome.”
Prior to shoving off the west coast of Italy, a few miles from Rome, Sir Thomas wrote the following message, and placed it in a bottle.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My dear sweet wife and babe within her womb
The five long years since I had lost you both
I prayed for inner peace despite my joy
Your both in heaven; worship Thee Most High
Because your love exceeds all life itself
My lips will glorify you ever more
I praise you for the rest; my living days
Your name I lift on high with my bare hands
Was on my bed that I remember you
I think of you the watches of the night
The shadow of your wings I cling my soul
The depths of which my sword shall honor thee
I yearn affections taste where two come one
The seed by faith that yields abundant life
Endures celestial kingdom's perfect place
It brings this missive to its endless oath:
To bless, release my restless heart that bleeds
Commit my swords allegiance to the Lord
To you Dagung the earth is smaller still
For every inch be searched to see your face
You disappeared, not dead but still alive
I feel the transom temper my resolve
For in this ship another search begins
The Holy Grail; Dagung I'll find you both
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Postscript
I toss the bottle through the wind to stormy sea
Inside the missive of a knight in love with thee
__________________________________________
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 2:00 PM UTC
He will forever stand there
Guarding that piece of treasure
He will stand there lonely
He will stand there brave
He will stand there striking fear in the enemies
He will stand there.
Swords Raised
Shields drawn in front
Knives on sides
Battle Armor in position
That templar will protect the treasure
It is his duty
It is his choice
It is his life
And he will annihilate
and ******
to retrieve it
if stolen
The lonely templar
has seen the truth
and is still living
you haven't
so stop complaining about life.
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
Ethereal Theories and Rituals
By Rosicrucian's and Masons
And The Knights Templar
Secrets whispered in listening Ears
Bound to Silence by unknown Fears
Symbolic Accoutrements Adorn
Compass, Cross, Aprons and Horn
Secret Rituals done in Dark Shadows
Robed Members with Incense and Candles
Perform ancient Tomes with Canticles
Reciting Century old Chants of Words
Enarmed with Pike Shield and Sword
Perpetuated through the Centuries
All Carried out in total Secrecy.....1/19/15
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 10:36 PM UTC
My name is Thomas de Charney
16 years old but rarely play
Father a humble Templar Knight
Pedigree noble bloodline might
Was born special is all I know
For God’s direction to and fro
Shield from danger ab ovo
Reason revealed from His glow
Broadsword and lance, reading abound
Practice and fight til victors crowned
Warrior and Monk seen as one
One and Only Begotten Son
Father taught me the skill to fight
Learn skill to read on parchment write
Knight Templar to be, but then what ?
Fate left to God with no rebut
Then one day Father came to me
Young Parsifal son you will be
Sequestrated as directed
Pushed to excel unaffected
Templar Knight who carries his sword
Doing God’s work for no reward
Beget with specific design
Some day made known I do consign
_______________________________________
Father, it’s time we practice, yes—deke the
wield of your sword and parry your blows, and
push myself until all the sweat has left my
body. For I am a young Parsifal soon to become
a Templar Knight.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 11:07 AM UTC
Nat Lipstadt
Mar 10
Pradip
Dear Sir,
I can't keep
up with
your prolific, delighting,
creations
This must be
the third poem at least,
for and to you, I,
publicly address
the thought terrifying,
if you took a vacation,
and had really
some free time to write
I do believe man,
it's time for a unique,
reserved, deserved,
and as of yet,
unheard of
special,
Hello Pradip Section
on this site
for this is yet one more
in a streaming video poem,
of me acknowledging you,
Master of the Word,
Wright Templar,
Poet Extraordinaire,
Most Importantly,
Beloved Human,
whose vision sees the world
in ways that
I adore
S. suggests,
I
take a vaca
just to eat your words,
in the lazy, rushed fashion
they deserve
but tween us,
your secret kept,
your parrot and
street dog Hengloo
write
every other one,
cause no human could
thus excel,
without some help
of animal spirits
in between your beloved
Saturdays
Yours Devotedly,
An Exhausted and Admiring,
Nat Lipstadt
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nat Lipstadt
Sep 2, 2013
Pradip Chattopadhyay
Simple verses,
blessed be the uncomplex,
But the visions, the glimpses,
The sightings, in and out,
Are celestial of, in, and on and about
This planet shared.
I will walk with you to
Henry's Isle,
You, accompany me, on the beach,
We will together ford Crab Creek,
When the tide is low,
And afterwards,
Repair to The Poet's Nook,
Where a moss stained Adirondack chair
Awaits the Poet Prince,
Your poems carved into
It's soul, it's arms, it's back,
Giving comfort continuous.
This chai, this chair, this throne,
Reserved for the lyricist of our lives,
The shedder of light upon the special,
The seconds, that fete our senses.
I await you arrival.
Tender this serenade,
this overdue apology,
For having not thanked you properly
For your living kindness,
Yet my words, insufficient, compared to yours...
A special man, a simple homage.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 4:43 PM UTC
Of late:
this "silence" conceptual haunts,
an irregular daily daunt,
coming evenly but oddly timed throughout the 24 hrs.,
writing Psalms and Sonnets demands sacrifice, sweat,
tears, no blood as of yet,
but who's to say, that it will
not be eventually requisitioned
in my life,
there are long intervals of intramural silences,
when afforded,
the art of contemplation assumes templar control, and my senses
to overdrive go
somber somnolent,
ironic that,
in the periods of deep surficial calm, creation is raging
in the fibered tissue of my neuronic cells, and though,
outwardly still, my heart chest pounding me to emit the
inner contents and context
of the 4 W's of every moment of my existence
(who, what, when and why)
the quietude of silence
is never whole, notions fly in, runabout, then depart, without a word of farewell, leaving not a trace behind, and the potential poems shrivel into stillborn drivel, leaving only an undisputed but an undistinguished stain, a fact that they was, were, conceived, but the mind's body was not fertilized sufficiently to see them nurtured to expulsive birth fruition, a less than subtle reminder that even and every state of being is regenerative even unto the very last breath,
when it is no longer...
Jun 9, 2025
Jun 9, 2025 at 11:54 PM UTC
This is not the beginning of my story
Nor will it be the end,
Hasten or not, it must be told
In my undying grief I can no longer go on without His strength
I am Sir Thomas de Charney, of the Order of the Knights Templar
Born in the Year of Our Lord 1270, now a man, 20 years old
My Father is William de Charney, Grand Master of the Order
He is currently headquartered at Acre, I Master at Gaza
Our lineage dates back to 1119, with the nine original Knights
The Order and my Ancestors names will live on forever
Until I was 18 I was unaware of the outside world
That story is for another time
At present the Christians control most of the Holy Land
However, the Muslims, or Saracens, continued to wreak havoc
They pillaged and plundered the villages outside our fortifications
The infidels accomplished this madness using vagabonds or tribesman
This story is about my love, Dagung; ne’er was a woman as beautiful
I was Master of the City of Gaza the first time I laid eyes on her face
While our garrison remained strong, proximal towns were under attack
Rakish strikes by Muslim non-essential forces made them dangerous
This we knew was the first line of assault by the Saracens
At the moment they were just toying with our minds in ludic form
Bearing assault on our townspeople like poltroons I took umbrage
Therefore I dispatched my men accordingly to make well the trouble
On this particular engagement I decided to join my men.
___________________________________________________
To be continued
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 6:04 AM UTC
Dear Sir,
I can't keep
up with
your prolific, delighting,
creations
This must be
the third poem at least,
for and to you, I,
publicly address
the thought terrifying,
if you took a vacation,
and had really
some free time to write
I do believe man,
it's time for a unique,
reserved, deserved,
and as of yet,
unheard of special,
Hello Pradip Section
on this site
for this is yet one more
in a streaming video
of me acknowledging you,
Master of the Word,
Wright Templar,
Poet Extraordinaire,
Most Importantly,
Beloved Human,
whose vision sees the world
in ways that
I adore
S. suggests,
I
take a vaca
just to eat your words,
in the lazy, rushed fashion
they deserve
but tween us,
your secret kept,
your parrot and
street dog Hengloo
write
every other one,
cause no human could
thus excel,
without some help
of animal spirits
in between your beloved
Saturdays
Yours Devotedly,
An Exhausted Nat Lipstadt
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 2:14 AM UTC
a love letter in the sand
*she implores me at my weakest,
early morn, when sleep and sorrow
yet linger on my eyelids and dreamt stories
still have not been replaced by the careworn,
life’s erasures that ***** sparks of creativity
write me a love letter, a forever composition,
resistant to aging, time and weathering, a poetics
stamped with a maker’s mark, a signet, a hallmark
to our love that will be read unceasingly, a party to eternal
preserve our sharing, under glass, in paint, in this ink,
in this atmosphere
deny not my request, for it is holy tinged, reddish singed,
the best of us to become immortalized,
for all other lovers to follow, in garden planted,
a peony’s blooming upon request, whenever needed,
be ready seeded, to salve and save, to be given and gotten,
in a single act jointed
no matter if our names brown edge to faded,
our love revived when it is voiced, witnessed, taken,
our love refreshed upon renewal by others eyes, lips, sensations,
make it an oath, a promising, combining our combination,
bless it for everyone, to be a blessing, a dressing of loving*
poet rose from prone, our templar bed, bathed his face,
bid his woman, follow, her bidding to be won, for this now
is the moment precise that such a need be immediacy met,
a task such, cannot be denied, temporized, delayed by delicacy,
a challenge so eloquently stated, must be instantly sated
to the sandy beach I took her, for she would be the first witness
to her creation, her inspirational must become perpetual,
with forefinger in the sand drew the words she had chosen,
for in every respect, he gave grandeur, preservation worthy, now encapsulated as “I will be yours forevermore”**
“how can this be eternal, in minutes, the tides arrival,
it’s erasure a certainty” she laments...
not true, I soothed, the tide will take each grain of our anthem,
with our bodies ash, to every seventh corner, where lovers gather,
to be rewritten, melded together, soft spoken unison,
spreading our tale, forevermore...
it will take 100 years for a single grain to cross the ocean,
and then, when all are as one, as we begun, this day,
our love letter in the sand perpetual
Oct 18, 2019
Oct 18, 2019 at 11:07 AM UTC
You behold a beast that lives inside your darkened mind,
You hold a creature that preys at darkest nights.
You go to sleep in sight but to sleep you shall never go,
Your raging spirit aches to swallow souls.
You are a killer.
The life you live, shaken, tremulously.
Demented souls you devour meticulously.
The blood you sip from the skulls relentlessly.
Sins of joy, sins of joy.
You are a killer.
The poor children cry, the poor children cry.
You never hear but yet you listen.
You swallow swords; you swallow blades as the sun it shines.
You utter words of encouragement and hide your face from the light.
You are a killer.
You act as brave as the knights of Templar,
And slice your blade in a stranger.
You shape a world of delightfulness and stump on it.
You are a killer, you are a killer.
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 7:33 PM UTC
There! Right there in the middle!
You see it? 102.91!
Goodbye starless nights,
Goodbye rainy days
I’m setting off to Rhodes
-an Island full of grace
Breath-in the sunlight,
See a windmill blowing
through the sea
The shore is out of sight,
The sun goes down
-it’s my turn now
Sings preciously the night
Symi! Hidden place of
secret gardens-
Breakfast by the sea,
A kiss of time
A fool, laughing on a tree
Will I ever reach that bee?
Or shall I sit and listen
In my tower
Laughing on my olive tree...
Symi! Will it ever get so close?
See a saw and drink a drink
seek a bee and find a templar
town, Fascio di combattimento
cause....
Rhodes! Morning starts with
croissant
Afternoon continues-
musique d'ameublement
Rhodes! Island full of windy
nights
cloudless skies,
Sands and mystic sights
Desert rose,
A kiss of time
A fool ageing on a tree
Will I ever catch that bee?
Or shall I stay and listen
to the waves
never found my home,
the home of many fates
the sea.....
Nov 20, 2019
Nov 20, 2019 at 7:53 AM UTC
kupujesz kebab'ah, przyjmuszej arab'ah.
do people realise it's
bound to be beyond
jesus?
i listen to the cantos
of the templars
and hear the adhan;
it's just problematic
when you revise
these verses into a coherent
movement that can
be monetised / militarised...
*in the grotto of nationhood; thus was said
to provide a signature, footprint or
the trouser's zipper; as the least demanding
reply... thus said by a man with no
crusader past... what is this anyway?
i'm going to call on the templar cantos
to be aired on classic.fm, but i know they
won't, they'd sooner air orff...
and that's the sad bit...
the violent bit comes later,
when you prescribe people medicine,
with them thinking it's poison.*
Mar 16, 2017
Mar 16, 2017 at 11:12 PM UTC
They called me an iconoclast
Blessed
With a templar-like fervor,
Fueled by my devotion
To the intangible potentate, Logic --
Omnipresent, omnipotent.
But how could I be?
Not with Katarina and Bianca
Still resting in grottoes.
Not when I still stop by now and then,
Meandering in from my countless excursions,
Traipsing about in my mind,
To leave a few trinkets
And light some candles
And maybe a murmured prayer.
Those snapshots of memory
Revisiting me on rare occasions now,
But not a moment of recollection goes by
Without remembering
Katarina
Writhing beneath my grip,
Her slender fingers entwined with mine,
Or Bianca
Enclosing me in her warmth,
Her gnarled hands reeking of cigarettes.
Their I love yous, I like yous,
Whispers and kisses,
All branded on my skin.
No, sir.
Label me not
As one,
Not when I still keep their memories
On a pedestal,
Not when I still heave sighs
Of longing and fondness
To herald in nostalgia
And its hangers on,
Regret and despair,
However blasphemous.
An iconoclast I am not.
Anything but.
Revile me
For exalting heretics.
I deserve the rack and the stake
For becoming
Just as much a heretic
As the ones I was tasked to condemn.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 1:45 AM UTC
Is it just an image? Just a dream?
Trespassing my heavy eyelids in the dead of night.
Need my poor sight dazzling light?
Need my pupils a gentle breath,
To blow away some possible dust
A layer of lie beneath or upon the truth
They claim to observe with full might?
Have I let slip so sudden this world
Runs anti-clockwise in the region of my head?
Have I foretold a smile full of tears
Or a summer sky turning velvet red?
Which child of earth has seen
The horror I battle day after day?
Which reckless knight or gallant templar
Has reached the law of come what may?
this war goes on through bugle calls and snare drums.
On a battlefield, where I die and unbecome..
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 5:19 AM UTC
Even if I can't let go
Even if my face won't glow
Even if it means I die slow
Even if you never know
It was you I would die for
It was you I would stand up for
It was you I would always adore
Precious, Vicious, Devious
Your my rose with ****** thorns
My soulmate with devil horns
Happy one moment
****** the next
There's no telling what to expect
Heavy internal bleeding I inflict
Death is the outcome I predict
My genes are rich, off limits
Ancient yet far from primitive
Anglo Conquistador
Aztec El Jimador y Cazador
Arising From The Sun Pyramid
Templar Knights Solomons
Temple Te Doy Un Ejemplo
Simpleminded completely blinded
Let me rewind it to 1492 history
Was it truly a victory?
Just a little piece of content
Love, live, laugh, is my intent
The one to gift you a present
The one I'd always represent
The one that lives in my heart
& fortunately pays no rent
The Martyr The Apprentice
The President The Ruler
The Battalion Commander
The Ambassador The King
It's no Kingdom without a Queen
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 1:43 AM UTC
I am a man with meany hidden secrets. I am a Templar. I am sworn to protect our secrets. And with that i have heart the love of my life. I wonted to to tell her but with that there came a price. we would be hunted down. i could not let that happen to her.
So for that I am sorry Abigail Ryan Bailey
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC
autism is the counter-theoretical term for solipsism.
my curiosity at my cat's curiosity
concerning a moth;
if ever the reverse
of the biblical eye-for-an-eye
could be true...
it would be
the quivalent
of the templar cantos;
it's still
but a man
and a cat,
and a cat curious
about a moth having
a shadow...
and the man
curious as to how
a cat has a meow;
fiddly bits, spiders,
scavenging the keyboard
for the third silence...
beyond alphabet,
beyond diacritical markings,
beyond all knwon
skeletal procession celebrated
in mexico...
i admit, a cat fetish...
**** me, aren't cats ontologically
autistic?
for me orangutans
resemble down syndrome...
as cats resemble autism.
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 9:53 PM UTC
Shhhhh - Titanic was Sunk by a Bilderberg
Albino rabbis, the Illuminati,
Protocols of the Elders of Zion -
The evidence seemed a little spotty
‘Til a radio guy had us wonderin’ and sighin’
Fluoridation by the New World Order
Backed by the Trilateral Commission
A scheme to open our southern border
To crop circles – that’s his suspicion
Area 51, the Templar Knights
FEMA lurking in the Bohemian Grove
Perfidious Rothschilds through menace and fright
Guarding a Jewish-Viking treasure trove
Poor Newfoundland is Occupied by ****** rats
Who scheme in secret tunnels beneath St. John’s
Brewing magic potions in Macbethian vats
In Rodentian rituals from the Age of Bronze
The Priory of Sion, runes, swastikas, the Vril
Roswell and the Thule Society
No wonder the air is darkly chill:
We all live within a conspiracy.
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 6:25 PM UTC
On another long *** haul flight,
just thinking about my life.
Or one of them at least,
don't wanna confuse this write.
I get to my late night hotel
and throw my bags on the bed.
So that i can curl up on the floor
and try to sleep once more.
Waking at 3, take to my phone
to stream free **** till i ***
Throw those same bags on the floor
and somehow sleep on till morn.
Rising in the bed next to the door
unruly, unkempt and disheveled.
Oh New Orleans, how i expected
a promise of so much more.
And back in dear Dublin
at St. Michans' protestant church.
Some **** just gone stole the head
of an ancient Knights Templar.
Mummified by the limestone
or from some methane gas there.
800 years he's been laid to rest,
greeting tourists and locals alike.
2019, taken on a last crusade
by some thieving dublinian scobe.
Sent floating down the manky Liffey
a river that stinks like a vikings robe.
Dublins' archbishop Michael Jackson
tells the papers that he's shocked.
Thats' right, Michael ******* Jackson
how weird and steaming is that.
This story i heard from a
blind boy with a bag on his head.
And he said he wanted to cry
for he so often visited that crypt.
Well i guess i've never been
and had never really planned.
But christ it still makes me sad
another switch I guess just tripped.
But hey, whats it got to do with you
and whats it all got to do with me.
Well me, i'm back on this hotel floor
trying to keep my own head.
And as for you, well you go right on
cry me a river to float me on dreams.
For me, for you and for above all,
that Templar Knight of New Orleans.
Mar 1, 2019
Mar 1, 2019 at 11:43 AM UTC