I want noise! I want a song! I want it loud!
I want a throng of drunken, revelrous madmen rejoicing and hootin’ hollerin’ happy, lettin’ loose
a shout of victory, a celebration explosion of thanks, a dance of goofball pranks and
gaudy glee flung up to the sky.
I want to cry tears of joy and gratefulness to the ground,
That purifying sound of splashing and giggling, gurgling, cuddling, bubbling, bust out the booties
and start ‘em shakin’ in a dance that tramples the endless monotony of day to day trance and sway,
‘Cause I want to break out and display the eruptive firework, humongous, oversized, can’t be
penalized, shackle splitting, ear drum crashing, church wall smashing hurricane of
gladness to the unmatched Creator of the world!

And I’m not just talkin’ about the pretty, little Hans Brinker look on my white boy face.
I’m calling every race and color smothered with beautiful bright, shiny and glittery gobs of
culture running together and over and under, smeared around in combinatorial shades.
We’re gonna raid the locked up cabinet of goodies wrapped in chains and shameful pictures of
pain and regret,
‘Cause it’s time to crank up a jukebox of peace and get our stolen brothers and sisters released to
boogie and shake and shudder with an earthquake of worldwide, clean your insides out,
happiness, hallelujah lovin!
Don’t be afraid to stop doin’ what you’ve been doin’ and start chompin’ on the taste good, juicy
fruit of an excited heart serving its maker.
Get in that margarita shaker and stir up those untuned vocal strings,
‘Cause I want to hear you sing,
Let some melody come skippin’ out your mouth in a childhood game right where the eyes of God
smile approvingly, His holy butt getting joltin’ jiggy with your little wiggy wag grab bag
of disco moves!
Don’t lose this chance to prance this thought in your mind.
You didn’t make your own behind, buttocks, gluteus flatulence, or whatever choice, three letter
word you decide to use.
It was a gift to wear along with those wooly shoes and the rest of your sheep covered skin.

Is this news to your fears?
Release from the queer, quackpot notion that you’ve got to conform your posterior to the rigid,
right angle pews of a stone-age way of sleeping?
Let’s start the tuba leaping out a beat, keeping the streets lined with a raucous throng ready to
enter a King’s palace with praise for the maker of the sun, stars and rain,
Run through the doors skippin’ and hoppin’ all tied together in a syncopated, holy mama that’s
long, samba train,
Throw up our hands in freedom as the sensory overload of presents, delights and pleasures fill
up our expanding brains,
Drink the healing champagne of His merciful, eternal name,
Because He’s good, and loves you,
And the invisible, free to all reality of that is never going to change.