It certain is some warmed themselves on flame
That burned ‘mid fiddling and the victims blamed
For cold they did not feel but had to name,
So crushed were they by power of Stupid God.
They, born under and broken by the rod
Its avatars did wield, did need no prod
To spread the mirksome gospel it would speak,
The words thus said their breaths making to reek.
By hour, by month, by day, by year, by week,
Their folly spread far faster than the flame
And sought on those unlike them to cast blame
For failure they’d not have themselves defame--
And now, as then, do many thusly preach,
Heeding not what thinking may well teach.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment