A final bastion, a reverent outpost
debauched into chaos
Impertinent adolescents mob
and slaughter the lamb
haphazardly
A nominal frock stands
green and feeble
Folds like a crumb-strewn
napkin on a marble
slab adrift in unordinary times
An urgent matronly appeal
thrust face to face
for sanity's sake
as neighbors to the rear
carry on out of context
Back at the kiosk they resume
an exchange between drags
Conceal the smut from the
cubby hole and recede to
the door, for guilt and a hearth
--Chris Peebles
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