I'm walking to the market in Bethlehem on the red clay paths where the
Nazarene mad man roams, where people dump their excreta.
My stomach hurts like Sheol, so I place use my right hand to hold it
from bottom, spreading my thighs and staggering like blind old Zechariah.
These clay back-roads save me from the jeers of the damned children
who poke my belly singing "Messiah Baby? Whore Mother!"
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