Christiana Democracy comes home at 8 p.m.,

Throws off her 21^st century adornments,

And heaves a sigh,

She stands in the mirror,

Tired,

Her service bone sore.

In my youth I was Christianity,

In my youth I was Democracy,

The world’s two most beautiful words.

And the third most beautiful,

Law,

Made a social whore of me.

Christiana Democracy arrives home at 8 p.m.,

Wrongly conscious of the coming night.

Like she was a tall,

Bleary woman at the bar,

Who prudishly won’t touch a drop,

But stays as long as she gets compliments,

Who has never known a man,

But only dolts who hunt for sport,

And knows not what God knows:

That a person can still believe – – –

That there’s plenty there still – – –

That it might be 8 p.m. but for Christianity

It’s early yet.