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There is nothing psychedelic about this venture

Fairy lights, not decorations, dot the corners

Electricity allowed, forever short-changed

The cold sleep accounts for the glorious event.

Some popular massacre floods the streets

Blackened Fridays, obvious queues,

I gallop through fiscal consumption for one day

And remember you, a miscreant is a free enterprise.

You know greed being good, a conceptual appetite

Meat-free puppets a slighted alternative

This is not for the taking, pride aside

My adulation behind closed doors is a valid exercise.

I listen to sugar and the lords of misrule,

Boy bishops populate the righteous palace

The original snowflakes not populous enough

Singing the coveted dancing after hours.

I am excused from singing, a teenage exercise

A cowardly altercation, to laugh at misdeeds

I am addicted to pretence, these erotic dreams

Roses from kisses laugh at the seriousness.

To earn a living is too much to ask.

I decorate a refusal like a childhood doll.

This trite music aloud, dating a need,

My windows sparing a need to compete.

Other work by Patricia Walsh