We’re limping towards Bethlehem to disarm the Geddons.
Irregular footprints mark uneven gaits.
To move with the purpose of peace everlasting,
to tame the fell instincts and temper the hates.


To  bring salve to the savage and light to the crust,
where the pharisees muddle hope into rust;
where greed and deception trump caring and trust.
No beacon or birth star, but limp on we must.

No art can dissuade us, nor logic prevail;
no argument justifies stifling dissent.
The promise of freedom is lost in translation;
all earth worth subduing is raped and near spent.
Our repentance is sorrow; we duck and we pimp.
We’re not really slouching, but we march with a limp.