20210102.0430

The wrinkled citrus avatar of the Stupid God may rot,
Its stinking, putrid flesh splitting at each spot,
And many will say that they it forgot
In times to come. But its stink already spreads
And wafts around too many giddy heads
To be ignored, and this they dread
Who seek for reason and for thought to see.
That the one is gone does not make free
Those who still are stuck and cannot flee
From congregants who would swap mask for crown
And in their seeking bring yet others down
Who otherwise might hearten every town.
That one avatar will flee does not bring ease;
Another comes, as is the world's disease.