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