The Lark at heaven’s gate sings
like a snow Goth minstrel.
Halo punked and wings pierced,
she’s zipped her fawn boots to the knee.
With lips that ope to concert lights,
she head bangeth to a little rhapsody.
A newly wired electronic harp
finds psychedelic love in angel tunes.
Soulful notes are amplified
through manna snorted melodies.
She screeches for thee, oh human one
To shuffle off that mortal coil
For heaven paints a picture bright,
but it ought not to be as bad.