The Golden Teacup

You busy yourselves with profit
And we stand in line
For a morsel,
And you oblige.
And together we dance 
With the golden teacup,
Two parts of the same thing
And we've sold our souls
For a turn.
And deep in the gut
Burns the hunger
That cannot be satisfied 
With a thousand dinners
Served on china.
And the nectar
Of your idol's image
Steams hot into our nostrils,
And we stir it round
And toss it down
To broil
Deep in the emptiness 
Of all that we've desired.
So sad.
And now we're angry
And disappointed
When the music slows
Or stops
Or lurches forward sporadically.
Turn.  Turn.
Turn round and round
Old earth.
Turn us round and round
And afford us a turn
With that Silence
That waits
At the end
Of all our dainty pleasures.
Give us Silence
At the end of this day
When the musicians go home
And the streets fold up
And the owls invade 
Our haunts.
Give us peace then 
In all the things
That we've avoided.
Give us pleasure 
In Its sweet 
Song.
And then let It come
And dance with us
And own us
And sweep us off our feet
And carry us deep 
Into Its chambers,
And love us there
When the moon comes out
Above us
In the night sky
That we'd forgotten.
There.  
There it is.
Beneath the din.
I hear it coming for me even now.