Army I don’t want to join the army I like my hair long I already keep myself fit And killing strangers is shit I have no desire to be angry I cannot be taught to hate
All Gods All gods are made of chocolate That’s how they keep disciples sweet Their hypocrisy is under the carpet The false morals lined up neat All gods are made with electricity
Charlevoix The old man St Lawrence snakes silently, heading north Teasing the roads that follow its scent Which it loses occasionally when blown off course
With These Hands We laughed about the notion Of me checking her breasts For signs of darkness I prepared myself for the work ahead She smiled when I said A strip search is necessary