The mountains of desire
Have called from royal rage
To slavish papal parroting.
We will not pay that wage!
But rather to the hills
We hike.
With lookouts all around
To sense the dreaded hoofbeats
A morbid soldier sound.
The hillside sheep
Join in our song
In Psalmist’s
Quick retreat (#63 and #12)
Our covenant to
One true Crown.
And lash and dirk
To meet.
A bloody warfare
Meets the Kirk
Tough locked doors
Scream of failure.
As love between our
Sweet Bride’s breasts
Allures to scented pleasure.
Yes Christ has found
The woman’s heart
In men who raise the Banner.
And seek strange scented
Trysting spots
Where larks sing in their manner.
The Moon looks down
Upon their Town
And sweet Romance
And Glamour.
(In tribute to the Scottish Covenantors of the 1640s through 1680s. They would not accept a temporal king as sovereign over their Church of presbytery. Marauding dragoons and bloodshed and torture, notwithstanding.)
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