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HOUR

Your chicken’s freer than this orphan boy
Farmed for cash, hands red with palm
Singing psalms, singing psalms
His hour is coming; he will be raised up high.
 
Your flints freer than this slight northern girl
An earth tied cash crop sent to the city
Singing hymns, cruel hims,
Set her on a rock, upon high.
 
Grown man, a-dirt from the mine,
Nothing is yours but the dust in your chest
Tied to your debts and imminent death.
When will you hear that the hour is near?
 
Rain soaked Old, your daughter and man both died lean
From a modern disease, made far from here.
Dear Ma may you be placed at the head of the table,
For the hour has come.
Written by whale
Published
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