Sunday Hypocrite

Father Winterling dresses in black

A casket figure who can't relax

With agonized face he preaches hope

Holds up the chalice like a telescope

But he can't see God this far below

Cursing February as he mumbles low

A congregation to stay intact

Must hear the truthful damning fact

Wind does injure and cold contagious

The cost of warmth behooves outrageous

Tell us a proverb while psalms we sing

Then solemnly swear at everything

The biased news a computerized game

Violent cartoons about a Dick and Jane

Out damn Spot! 'twas a Grimm Fairytale

Brainwashed believers out on bail

Bow to your landlord, boss and teacher

Your leader, pope and prison preacher

So sound it crazy this subliminal thrill?

At least I don't sell lies to bend your will

Curse the food-drugs-and latest tend

The expensive clothes of make-pretend

He's better than you best dressed oppressed

For then on Sunday be forgiven and blessed

Oh priestly statue so rigid and dead

My body and soul are not your bread

My blood not wine that you'll drink dry

Your unseen God has heard my cry.

     Ciera S. Louise c. February 28, 2005