Matins

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Filius flashes, eleison crashes 
and Jericho smashes again
Titular washes, old men in galoshes
are pishing and toshing til ten
 
Madrigal masses move on through molasses
while half-witted lasses shake tins
Stoned under mosses, thirteen gilded josses
count all of our losses as wins
 
singing
 
kyrie, kyrie, Kylie's sainted arse
a Sufi speculates:
this too shall pass