WILL no one castigate this wretched man
His remarks on Amazon On Wonga on Zero hours
His cry for raising taxes
From his mansion of splendour girded with praise
O worship the king
All glorious above
“The Ancient of Days “ ~ The beauty of that line flies over his mitred head
I can describe god better than any theologian

The Hypocrisy ~ a pretense of having virtues – of Theology ~ that false profession
A place where science and myth struggle not, with incompatibility
And where those two etymologies ~ Theo/Logy ~ sit rudely abutted each t’other.

These wretched people clothed in fine silk and with coiffured-head
Slow-walking and soft of tongue
Learned and articulate
Signifying nothing
Ornamental drivel
Raiment from a fabulous land
Robes of stark white purity
Pontificating postulating proposing
with a direct line to the almighty
Wined and dined
Infused with crassness and obloquy
Infallibile and with
Oodles of charm and grace
Cream on top and a fine sandwich filling
Soft and comforting
Authoritative yet mendicant
Immutable in the face of reason and science

Their endearing names of pose and position
Primate reverend most reverend
They take on the mantle of god
And name themselves Lord of all
A bloody House full of them
Wretched retirees
With a quick signature by a shaky hand
They lift an honest workingman’s week’s wage
For a few hours of comfortable somnolence
And approve Laws with faint-camouflaged turpitude

How honourable
Hollow be thy name
Let’s oust the lot of them

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