Your Sunday Disguise

Your Sunday Disguise

A Poem by The Soft Parade

Sexual tension,
Say what, they would rather not mention.
Idle engines,
they purr, with sloppy precision.

Wasted effort,
Toss it in the river.
The plane is just now boarding.
Watch, the passengers are learning.

The chance of survival,
Through the scope of fates rifle.
Whistling bullets,
Running from the butcher's child.

Thick mud is flying,
From the souls of the convicted.
Dirty, rotting, filthy,
Their minds once thirsty.

The whiskey on her breath,
hides behind gentle Sunday best.
The church doors are closing.
Please, take a seat.

© 2010 The Soft Parade



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Reviews

this poem is really good. a great write in deed

Posted 6 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

The bad part is this is all true. Love this poem. Great writing.

Posted 6 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.


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2 Reviews
Added on November 11, 2010
Last Updated on November 11, 2010
Tags: Your, Sunday, Disguise