Poetry

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Lawlessness savages. We call it free enterprise
Perdition ravages. We call it suffering

Slewfoot lines up three sixes
to worship the beast and his horns

Dark, one sided divide
unblinking reptilians fix bayonets

While in the light,
Salty fishers of men fix boats and nets
for the greatest harvest of souls
since the Captain, our Captain Salvation
taught His remnant to fish

Annointed saints pray for the lost
Appointed snakes pray they'll stay lost

Bishop Luke Warm checks his bottom line
coughs like a hyena

and scans the smalls
for a fall guy to take the mark

For the Gospel's sake, of course
There'll be absolution, of course

While all the while, in the East,
The Son grows brighter, reflects
a festival of trumpets, raised, ready
to sound the call of promised land
Please check your lamp oil

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