Ed Brickell

How the Words Come 

 
Sometimes they parade like naked children perched on ponies. 
Sometimes they ooze from a golden cup in a godly hand. 
Sometimes they bust in with guns gripped high. 
Sometimes they dart from the sky like blind birds. 
Sometimes they are revealed by reverent servants. 
Sometimes they are hammered out hot on a workbench. 
Sometimes they are gifted by grinning demons. 
Sometimes they just bud and bloom in our eyes. 
Sometimes we must come to them, the smug bastards. 

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