Whiskey-soaked tobacco,
Pinched and withdrawn from
A bronze-bottomed glass,
Is flicked to the floor,
Not brought to the lips:
And so, whiskey-soaked,
Am I wasted.
I meditate on this and then
I meditate on He
Who, whiskey-soaked from His
Bottomless grail,
Spoke soberly of the threshing floor,
Saying,
You, too, will be beaten
With rod and with flail,
Hacked from the husk
And mashed
Into host, my body;
Consumed. It was Sabbath day.
His disciples, half-drunk,
All had appetites.
The husbandmen were horrified,
And His heresies were numbered
By the hungry, mumbling Pharisees nearby.
*Damien's website: www.DamienTavisToman.com.
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