Vegas, like ants or roaches wearing skin
Inside their shell, does so present its men,
Who are not its own but belong to lands,
Towns, and states with grass, far from desert sands.
Your true fickle-freaks, the rascal-rabble,
Partake not in the inverted Babel,
But stream darkened casinos and such streets,
From town’s lesser men, you wisely retreat.
You’ve enough oddities to last you years,
There’s no need to increase your many Lears;
Our Lord came to cure the sick, but to seek
Sin for sin, is not to turn the cheek.
As a meek lost lamb, if you wish to be found,
Lay down your weapons, in your dust lie down,
But look to the ant, and don’t lie in sloth,
Repent, act, flee the lights unlike the moth.
Written at the Desert Schooner,
While Listening to the Rebel’s game,
Las Vegas, Nevada
Saturday, October 10, 2015
Painting: “Our Lady with the Infant Jesus Riding on a Lamb with Saint John”
By William Blake,
Tempera & pen on canvas, 1800