Give me the larkish Jesus, of the generous chevelure and the radiant sandals.

If I can't have him (the capacious, the curious), give me Saint Mary the Virgin, who is bluest moonlight in the aether of November, and whose head wears a crown of stars, all twelve.

For there are but twelve stars in the glow and glimmer of night, in the ebb and surge of the heaventides, and they flock to the noggin of our Blessed Mother, to hallow her sorrow.

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earlier version

I want me some libbrul Jesus, of the chevelure and the radiant sandals. If I can't have libbrul Jesus, give me Saint Mary the Virgin, who is bluest moonlight in the aether of November. Whose head wears a crown of stars, all twelve. For there are but twelve stars in the hebbins and they flock to the noggin of our Blessed Mother.