Babies In Mangers

I can’t think of living in whiteness,
Talking of niceness,
Watching all the skittles grow.
Weaving patterns of petals for strangers.
Babies in mangers,
Watching wild people throw,
Skittles at his back,
While she’s in the sack,
In the black.
Twice I’ve dreamt of Kings on their night off,
Waking to a white-wash,
Reaping all the seeds they sow.
Fallen angels struggle for platitudes,
When people find the latitude.
Burning wild crops we grow.
Stab her in the black,
In the back,
Stab her in the back.