To my guest in the land of Easter, let me welcome you into insanity that holds no fear.

Garden green reaches out for me to take lingerie,

My grandma winks and then her eyes bend into the leaves.

On a piano a redhead sings oh forget the Greeks Venus, for I love the old Venice!

Behind the mane of an emerald lion, peeking through his hairs we see a sentient fountain.

Medieval flutes dance on the little bumps of legs,

The angels couldn’t know my type of language, if I didn’t practice with them.

Mustn’t not move any sun hats from copper hooks;

In the land of Easter bugs work inside of them, who else could tend to our Imagination?

Deep into the sun stained meadows, we strain our eyes on the vermilion puppet we call Laughter.

His face dressed in jester porcelain.

Too small to be held by strings, he dances in the green like a red devil on exotic angel wings.

Shadows here compliment those who lay in triads or more. 

Hidden away from the man who waves his hands angry in the empty air.

For my guest who dares to come near, step down from your ballerina jewelry box.

The redhead and her piano will eat your sorrows and our flutes may play to your insanities desire.

Suppression is no friend here, 

Even upon the tongue of the Beast, we leave notes of wisdom and fresh pear.

Angel trumpets are flowers yet they play music only to walk your demon to. 

To my guest, skip and dance while you are here,

Wisdom hates linear form and orderly fear.