I’ll take your sweetened holy ash
Prescribed to me by horoscope,
To swallow what is left of me
In bitter shots of espresso.
The horseshoe ring you put on me
I’ll make my fidget spinner toy
To turn throughout my highs and lows
Or punch with when my anger boils.
The calling cards of Hindu Gods
You slip into my wallet sleeves,
I’ll use to clean my dirty nails
Or scratch under my sweaty knees.
I’ll do the things you ask of me,
But seasoned in some blasphemy.