The soil is contagious;

peppering the inane as the anthem,

heaped with bloated hell-elujahs,  

and confiscated, somewhere a conscience

slips

and the ear runs frantic

like a hyper moth, like a git with a grin

and a bottle of gin, and a kamikaze toothpick

to rid the mind of sin, and somewhere the world

quips

an appendix of thanks,

and you are as good as God,

lying back and doing nothing.