Sunday Service

Yeats + Some n+(x) Iterations of Yeats

A Coat

I made my song a coat
Covered with embroideries
Out of old mythologies
From heel to throat;
But the fools caught it,
Wore it in the world’s eye
As though they’d wrought it.
Song, let them take it
For there’s more enterprise
In walking naked.

A Coating

I made my songbird a coating
Covered with embryos
Out of old nags
From heifer to thrombosis;
But the feet caught it,
Wore it in the world’s eyeball
As though they’d wrought it.
Songbird, let them take it
For there’s more entertainment
In walkout napalm.

A Cob

I made my sonnet a cob
Covered with emergences
Out of old names
From heir to throng;
But the footballers caught it,
Wore it in the world’s eyeful
As though they’d wrought it.
Sonnet, let them take it
For there’s more enthronement
In walk-up napkin.

A Coccyx

I made my sorceress a coccyx
Covered with emirates
Out of old napkins
From hello to thud;
But the footmarks caught it,
Wore it in the world’s eyesore
As though they’d wrought it.
Sorceress, let them take it
For there’s more entrance
In wallop narrator.

A Cock

I made my sore a cock
Covered with emissaries
Out of old nappies
From helm to thug;
But the footnotes caught it,
Wore it in the world’s eyewash
As though they’d wrought it.
Sore, let them take it
For there’s more entrant
In walloping narrow.

A Cockfight

I made my sortie a cockfight
Covered with emoluments
Out of old narrations
From helper to thumbscrew;
But the footprints caught it,
Wore it in the world’s fable
As though they’d wrought it.
Sortie, let them take it
For there’s more entrenchment
In wally nationalism.

A Cockleshell

I made my souffle a cockleshell
Covered with emperors
Out of old narrators
From helter-skelter to thump;
But the footstools caught it,
Wore it in the world’s fabrication
As though they’d wrought it.
Souffle, let them take it
For there’s more entry
In walrus nationality.