mWhere are your father and mother?
‘They have both gone to the church’, he muttered,
Can this be the usual entrepreneurial Ecclesia to glean?
Conducted in an extorsive scene,
To make repressed the sin,
Congregants seduced to subconscious benefaction,
Fed with sycophantic sermonising,
It is a place where the poor give like the rich to become rich, whence poor,
A grand place where the fattened sermonists are fed by the poor’s stipends,
Can this be a giving of joy?
Of deference for God?
Helplessness it is,
Yes, I think!
They sing songs with the notes of woe,
Dancing to their utopian God who made up a paradise of their misery,
Misers groomed by the preach of deceit,
Contrived out of the wisdom book,
Conveyed with the rhetorics so sweet to hear,
It is the cruel snare that opens the tightfisted hand, upon its ensnarling, the iron pocket is broken.
Say! Are they not hypocrites with gold-rimmed Papal hands attractively decorated with thorns?
So gleaming that the divine can not subdue,
They are emissaries of mystery,
Self-sent into a foreign land for diplomacy of misery,
Stilling their exploits through the century,
Has this pocketicking not done enough wrongs?