S-O-N-G

Brazen heads; whining, mopping, mumbling, low,
Waiting; for a faithful hand, to begin the show.
Strolling so someone, the song begin,
So it starts and they, casually, join in.

But before, the artist appears,
All the trembling uncertainty longing’s built.
Hoping that their Beelzebub disappears,
When the song reaches crescendo’s hilt.

For a human artist arrived at zero,
Masses cheer him, “The Crucified Hero”
He sought to tame society, the rabid hound.
Thus bartering love for a thorn made crown.

This man believed in love’s force,
His faith unshakable and reason its source.
Before his death thus moaned a song,
Misunderstood, misinterpreted for so long

Jesus:
“Sing me a song!
But-not-for-me-alone,
Sing out!
For you aare bless-ed
There is; not one among you
Who cannot, win, the kingdom!
The slow; the suffering
The quick
The dead”

Crucifiers and molesters; the people of ages.
“Hey zana,
ho! zana!
zana! zana!
ho! zana!
haaae zana!
ho! Zaaa-naaaaaa!
Hey J.Cee.
Jey C!.
Wont you daa-ie fo-hor me
Zana ho...
Zana hai...
Superstaaarrrrr”.