Xochipilli 

You are a coruscated crown;
The citizens do flock to the same stalls...
In 1933 the poet sings a song to thee.

Patron of the arts, patron of the flower,
Patron of the games; god of Sodom...

What can we do for thee?
How can we break free from thy tyranny?
You control the world, from Taining lands;
You are a clown ruling a half the world.

How does the poet know? 
Does he wear time on his wrists?
I, the Urn, he sings of me,
Banished and in purgatory.
I sit, listlessly, listening to obdurate church bells...
They have no faith, but worship the Anglican and Catholic God
Xochipilli ;
Am I an artefact? No.

For a short breath of time, this Anarchy reigns,
While David allies with the Avegins. 
And anarchy reigns across the land,
While Xochipilli  fiddles to the burning heaps
Of his cities--- for he does not know.

Who am I? I am the Urn with Ashes and Homilies.
Childe Harold is on his pilgrimage;
Oh, how he goes, with his fair haired bride.
Purgatory shall turn to paradise
One day...
And I... I shall go where?
When Sodomite has been made Writ
And man's sinful nature has corrupted even the lambs?
Where shall I go?
This world was not made for me.
So, I rest at peace.