I spied the dais on which he stood so hued in elevation,

Dispensing words upon the meek, there bowed in supplication

And thought of what that platform meant, though slyly did it stay,

Propelling up loquacious threats of pain on Judgement Day.


His head threw back in confidence, he sought to educate

The sodden, soiled and hopeless hordes there bound for Peter’s Gate,

And sighed a sigh of some contempt, so wearied by their plight,

In need of his sagacious words to touch elusive light.


… where he has lived and he has breathed and he has stayed the void

and he has driven out the stench that signals souls destroyed;

where he has reigned so regally, a martyr to his fate

to ferry forth the numbers foul to seek that Promised Gate…


The collar that adorns his throat, the symbol of his labours;

The lines that stretch round eye and jowl, the marks of fleshy favours;

The softened hands that grip the stage, the tools to serve his love;

The earnest voice commanding thought and spirit from above;


All this, yet more, put on display for peon or pleb to view,

To thank their God for all bestowed upon their serfish stew

Of degradation, not in Grace, but spiritual desolation

That’s sure to eat, erode their souls, should he deny salvation.


So when he kneels there in the dark, with innocents beside,

It is the work of God he does for he has naught to hide;

And when he rapes, assaults, abuses children as they weep,

It’s to the Jewish joiner’s path he orders we must keep.


But should the bearded chippy e’er return to check the scene,

Would he pierce the collar with his chisel… to end the play obscene.



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