Cult of Don Quixote
Here, we paint our lips blue. Our faces yellow. Wear silence as garment. And
lace lemons around our necks.
And after feeling up pears. We kneel by the candelabra and pray for visions of
his holiness. Sitting shirtless
Gallant by his roiled stead. Wearing papered armor as skirt. Pouring wine for
fat angels he hopes to bed.
After the ritual, we practice the stern and furrowed expressions of the sane.
Open our visors. Fold our lances. Erase drawings of giants. Bow to each
other. And walk out of the shrine.
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