We are the vital organs of a bridal bridge,

sown upon a parabolic path.


We have scoured both sides,

and searched for the shore,

with hopes to be torn asunder.

Yet as we have learned,

of what cannot be earned,

the fog thickens up as we wander.


We are the political jargans of a bridal biitch…

fone a thon an alcoholic wrath.


Our tongues run us reckless

and seek for ourselves

oh, the thought of our wealth and our pleasures!

Soon we tire of fencing,

and fall back into place,

our rickety arms lock together.


We are the tribal organs of a baptized bridge

shone upon an apostolic path.


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