BY VASA CLARKE
When chaos takes a wrench to the divine
And scandals haunt some persons of renown
The least that we can do is take the time
To watch the pillars of the Earth come down.
When children cry to me in their distress
And peace is not to be found anywhere,
My ass was not made for this sort of mess:
You won’t find me within a mile of there.
I know a thing or two about the ways
Of all the people that I’ve walked among,
And even if I’d fire on my tongue
With all the songs of Heaven in my head,
I’d rather tend the garden of my days
And let somebody else do it instead.