Satan can lick my balls
And god can fuck a tree:
Imaginary ghosts
Don’t mean a thing to me.
Brutish prophets struggled
To manufacture light,
Calming primate neurons,
Fearful of mortal night.
Cowering goat herders
Crowned themselves divine,
Convinced fools to follow,
Coaxing void blood from wine.
Hocus pocus locusts,
Burning bushes and floods,
Fairy tales and riddles,
Virgins stripped of their buds.
Is all this scorn misplaced?
My pen too quick to blame?
My wording crass and crude?
My blasphemy a shame?
Bah! I see no reason
To coddle reason’s foe.
Vulgar verse and mocking
Help discontent to grow.
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