I have a path of sliding stones, a direction
that moves beneath my feet and spins me
while I struggle North, holding a star in sight
despite not knowing where I'm going.
Oh please don't let it lead me to Bethlehem,
to some barnful of miracles and bastard babies
scattered on the floor to trip over and kick away.
Spare me those 'wise' men bearing 'gifts' I have no use for;
Just progress him three decades and nail him up today...
I know I could use a little Easter in my heart,
as well as an egg salad sandwich.