Western Civilization

Nymphs dance in these suburban parts With liquor hips, but river hearts And as the music stops and starts The flowers shake from side to side. Too old a girl, too young a bride So she’ll stay something in between. She read it in a magazine, Some time after her Santa died. There are hyenas in these parts, Who prey on nymphs with river hearts. They only smell the liquor hips, Taste only coca-cola lips And feel a pounding in their heads From baselines, tightening their grips On sweating skin fit for a feast Or maybe just a filthy beast. So, while hyenas dance with nymphs Who are not worried in the least I’m looking for a holy man Hell, maybe just some kind of plan To fix what God has left to grief And help me with my unbelief “It shouldn’t be this way,” I sigh But do not ask. I don’t know why.