Saturday, March 2, 2013

Give the Monk

Seven minutes, drunk,
Or seven months, Zen,

Or seven years, yogic,
Or seven dogs, Christian,

And then ask him
(He being someone

After all not fond
Of females as of

Dogs, desert,
Or rhyming gongs)

What he learned.
Don't be sad, you

Unbeliever, if without
Donations or devils

Behind you by dozens
Your question's spurned.

This is the rhyme born
Of assigned convictions

And gardened over
Convicts' spans of time.

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