My loves, across the world,
I am the Albatross, your sorrow and shame.
All around the world, my name is heard
Like it never were, or never was and couldn't be.
And all are ashamed of what they have done to me.
My sins are like your sins, but my sins are known
And you hate me, for you wished me to stay silent.
You cursed me, and took my thoughts from me.
And you said, "We are justified."
Yet... what I have done is what you have done
And you have done far worse...
Oh, how I am to your shame, your never ending curse.
"What have we done!" cried the peoples who buried my heart.
The poet's destiny was broken,
By the petty feuds of great dictators
When America had freedom of speech.
I am the albatross, for my shame is yours
And you have done this to me
And stolen my bread and given it to the world.
But where is my bread?
And that is why I am your shame.
I asked not for more than I could eat,
But my solemn portion, for the good work I have done.

The True Fairyland of Old King Cole

Mother Goose Nursery Rhymes

Tall Tales

Merry was my heart, old King Cole
With your melodies...
Yours was the world I came from.

The true Fairyland, and Old King Cole,
Told a tale ever so old...
Lazy I am and Lazy I be,
But I'm not so lazy, you will now see.

I worked 300 hours, at five pence a tick
I worked it all day, and got ever so rich.
I was youthful and handsome and well to do...
More beautiful than 10,000 it is true.
I split logs, and threw them, sometimes eighty pounds
And I raked up the refuse, and threw them in barrels and proud
I was to do this work, until poison ivy made an itchy curse.

Then I spent my days, writing my odes,
"For why risk the poison," is what my heart told.
And I learned many things, I shall now tell so old.
I learned Psychology, and Philosophy, and Religion it's true
Sociology and History of not a places so few.
I learned Math and Science and saw all the most famous art.
I cultured my mind on the great litterateurs of large.
Great and timeless classics, to which I see Abo the Lazy...
I say... that is a bit too crazy.
I do not want gemstones, or to be a millionaire,
Just to marry my woman, and slay the goblin, and have just recompense fair.

For I took to the painters and did the hall
While Abo the Lazy sat there and watched.
Then he and the Goblin painted one room
When I had prayed to God it would be finished, too.
There they saw him, in the way,
And fear frightened his faces, and I was not so gay.
Then I had thoughts, which few were truly good
And I quit my job, as I knew I should.

Then I spent one day folding laundry it's true
And nearly broke my hand pulling on the grooves
Of a quilt, upon the duvet, and my hand got crippled
And any more work I would say
That I could have withered it true.
So I went back to writing, these odes here to prove.

I was a shepherd, and trimmer, and painter and cook
A dishwasher and guard but never a crook.
I do not lay upon my side, and ask my mother to spin...
No, I write my odes and battle my own sin.

Tender Christian, you are startled in the fold
By mild controversy, either young or very old.
There you stand, a sheep in pasture, grazing on your cud.
You do not, oh you do not, you do not like the mud.

You are there, with your fleece, that warms your pastoral care
And he feeds you with the finest grains, and with you love doth share.
Tender and timid, in the barn, you shy away from another voice.
Yes, every change to the world, you look to your Shepherd's joy.

You are very timid, and very tame, and will not come well nigh...
You do not like things to change, and you are not very wise.
You need to be led, and tenderly tapped, by the shepherd's instrument
And the wolves, the wolves, they need to be whacked.

Yet, every once in a while, one of you wanders from the fold
And you get dirty and muddy, and your black fleece gets very grown.
And with your long nails, and with your clot back, you bleat for help I see;
For the shepherds keep, oh how the shepherds keep, they keep changing everything.

You like consistency, and to be fed your grains, and to be given your good food.
You like to labor at the yard, and eat the grassy good.
You do not like new routines, or new undershepherds in your yard.
You like everything to remain the same, so you do not wander very far.

I consider his arguments---
And I know complex civilization cannot work
Under his absurd claims.

If the worker took home all they produced
Their managers--who have a harder job, it's true--
Would not gain their money.
Nor would the top people, who made the company.

Surely, billionaires are a problem...
But surely... there are a lot more nuances to the market
That give us Haagen Dazs and Coca-Cola and Ahold
And it essentially feeds all of us.

So, teaching your students to do as little work as possible
Will only make them slaves to the tyranny of Marxism.
Which takes all the worker's wage, and instead of it being Corporate Giants
It is Putin or Xi who gets all the money, while we waste away.

Simply put, the resources are there...
Workers need to tap into them...
Billionaires make too much money...
But it's also a psychological need for humanity to work.
It's also true, you can't create a utopia, where people sit by pools
And sip Pina Coladas, without someone making them.

It's a balanced subject, but Wage Labor is the best system
Because it gives the people a part of what they earned.
It's just the fact that people are not transforming the capital
At the standards they ought, and are not purchasing capital
At equal exchange of their labor's value.
Which both problems, lead to the issues we face.
Where Marxism cannot be a solution.

The solution, is simple... it's limit the amount people can make.
And limit the size of corporations.
Eliminate criminal records, past the sentence served.
That way, everyone has a chance to enter into the markets.
And also find markets for niche goods, and have logistics that can bring them to people.

How I understand you, my favorite book.
Truthfully, I understand you better than 
I understand my own work, at times.
Beautiful are your pages, and leafs
Which miraculously fold into small books
With thin paper, and many pages leaf through
And the excellence of your wisdom is premier.

Yet I say you are not the whole faith.
Our faith is found in the living epistles
Of every Christian--true Christian--
And your laws are excellent, but need
To be understood through a clear context.
I have that Context, for having seen it
When I was a little lad, but many have not.

I see disputes about doctrine, and Ignatius says,
"Yes, where is it written?" And I ask myself the same.
For, the Legalist is a damned Pharisee, for we ought
To know how to walk, and that in Love and Kindness.
Thus, disputes and laws, and ordinances
We ought to let go, and be at peace with the brethren.
However, what Paul lists as sin... oh, know, it is sin.
No reviler shall enter the kingdom of heaven
And yet our entire Church has become revilers of man
Wanting to find their proof from the scriptures.

It is all there, for sure... nothing lacks in the Bible
But then people want laws and ordinances and legalism
But not the Spirit of the Law, and like Cain they murder 
Their brother, over disputes and heavy controversies.
And they dispute one with each other, and Satan gleefully
Listens to their disputes, and there is no righteousness
Or peace, but only envy and slander and deceit.

The great travesty of scripture is that it is complete
But it means something. And so many shirk the meaning
For legalistic interpretations, that don't get to the heart
Of what the Bible is saying... which is to Love God and your Neighbor.

Every Martyr, I see a creative faith,
Like my own. Spoken, driven to the Bible
But still... creative and unique.
They speak of Heaven, and the good place...
A man and wife write letters,
And the woman is gleeful to be tormented
But the man in sorrows.
For she is willing to die for her doctrine.
I don't particularly see anything sinful
In the Catholic faith... or in her faith...
And I come to this conclusion often
That neither party has it all correct.
One blind obedience to Dogma and Church Ordinance
And the other a free and easy doctrine from the Bible.
I see two people who truly believe in what they're saying...
But the one is willing to die for it,
And the other is willing to kill for it.
I see creativity contrast with rigidity.
Freedom contrast with man made stricture.
Grace contrast with law.
And I don't think Catholics go to hell,
Or Protestants, or Orthodox,
As much as I think power goes to hell
Which bends the world to wicked rules
And does not have any mercy...
And certainly today, it allows sin.
For martyrs will be made by all three Churches
Ephraim, Judah and Israel
Very soon, I'm afraid... as the world cannot tolerate righteousness.

I watch a man speak for five minutes
Building up to the reveal that Ignatius
Is a man who heard and studied directly
Under Peter and John.

And then he says, "Aha! Therefore the Pope!"
I take it only a step back, that he heard
From Peter and John.

For Theilman is as much scripture
As Ignatius to me...
And I am as much scripture as him...
But it is the true Apostolic faith.
Therefore, I am an Apostolic Christian.

For Esdras, and Ignatius, and Thielman
And Brandon, and Clive Staples Lewis
And G. K. Chesterton, and Augustine 
And Aquinas, and Hymn Makers
And Oil Painters and Musicians
And Creed Makers and the Teutons 
All have apostolic Christianity
To inspire us... for we are one bread and body
And must learn from each other
And not be blinded by Scripture's Authority
To say, "Only it matters." For God wants
All of us to share in the Apocrathy
Of faith, ministering to all the Saints.

Build, Noah, thy Ark with the Tree of Heaven
And its sulphurous branches smell like sweat;
Sweat of captivity, for judgment fills the whole earth.