Oh Sovereign of wisdom Solomonic,
forgive us. The wicked wax demonic.
Golden vessels fill with foulness;
man is bankrupt, sold and soulless.
Unsettling harbingers loom dystopian . . .
Sheba rises in dreams Ethiopian.

Tested with questions, her spirit once gone,
occultic suggestions postponed her dawn.
(Six-hundred and sixty-six talents of gold
paid Nineveh’s rise as Messiah foretold.
Go read it in Matthew, obstinate sinner—
You think He intends to have Satan the winner?)

Her ruins now surveyed by satellite
beheld on the screens of the Canaanite:
canals to expose, southern deserts to cross,
Eritrean legends of Prophet (and loss),
the Ark of King Menelik—Kebra Negast,
treasures of darkness presented, now past
have us checking those texts that worldlings despise
as we wait under dread Luciferian skies.

Break the sixth seal of the seventh scroll;
let the thirteenth angel spill the bowl!
(or smoke it up in the courts of Heaven
till ganja’s infinitude totals seven . . . )
Exhume Axum with the damned of Marib.
Decode the encryption on Adam’s rib
unearthed from some Antediluvian ravine—
blast from the past: she explodes on our scene!
Seven oaths shall be sworn on her spectral beauty
(our Biblical transcendental duty).
The libation is mixed. Are we ready to swill it?
Beersheba? She brew! Let us rise to fulfill it.
from sita to Saba fifth columns are ready:
Oh Sovereign — render their pillars unsteady.
For after explosions there’s mess to clean up,
and it’s worse than the horrors inside of her cup.