Even in England, fiery primates muse:
Easter Rabbit’s a pet, yet-to-be, being
postdated, your future guest, you in delirium,
it donning then various church company colors.
But really not the bird you fondly tag a cardinal,
it’d have the hue no Archbishop had dictated,
churches having focused more on the eggs,
the promised, not the promiser.
Ēoster must forget this prank, being
posthumous, set askew in the time of Lutherans.
‘Twas arbitrariness, the Bunny as the Virgin Mary,
among other meanings now put asunder.
But being critically liable, let the violins crank
up a future Voltaire among the rabble, against the
doctrines, fire up no heaven with a King or Queen
at St. George’s Chapel. This is all about
the Promise, not these promisers.
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