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Once a nameless woman went on a shopping spree
And started a revolutionary movement,
Without even realizing it; strolling through miles and miles
Of underground malls, with fake palm trees and scentless orange groves.
Returning home, all the store mannequins fell into step
Behind her, and shadowed her going into the apartment building,
Up 20 flights of stairs; thousands of empty rooms,
Each one with a bone cross, nailed above the door,
All the doors unlocked with the same skeleton key.
And then they all went downtown, to volunteer for Selective Service,
On the Day of the Dead,
Where they had all their limbs sawed off
While the rosary was recited;
Over bathtubs, of molten blood,
And they all died martyrs deaths
And went into battle, on the bodies of bionic soldiers;
Then were buried along with them, in their caskets.
On the third day, the dead arms and legs rose again,
Tapping on the insides of the coffins, their prearranged code
Upon hearing their clarion call, the noon whistle;
While the shade from the trees bleached out the grass,
And while women went shopping, and started revolutions
And while plastic saints sipped scentless orange drinks
Under the manacled sun.
And then we all prayed to the mannequin god, fastened to a bone cross,
Between two skeletons,
Over a basin of fake blood
And Who wept sun-bleached tears
And His shoes never quite matched anything.
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