Your prayers sound comatose to me
Brain dead repetitions of idolatry
My mother isn't my savior, said Jesus
on my cursed tree. My mother isn't my Savior
My God My God is much higher than she
And how do you treat your bride to be
while gazing comatose and reciting rote poetry
to the angels, saints and statues in your rectory
It's May Day and the Month of Mary
blessed her crushed and weeping heart
Take pity on the suffering angels
but do not make them Gods of art.