The Pulpit

What I would not write is much
On the sullied cloak of the clergies.
My inkwell keeps running dry
Each time my quill feather
Is dangled in their direction.
A warning not to belittle
Or mock the modern day Pharisees
Because surely there are
A few good men in their lot.

Yet you should feel this in the heart.
Because therein lies your eternity

I care less of the
Of the fierce looking bobbies
And dogs guarding their calvacades
And mansions here on earth.
I care less of the fetish manipulation
They have over the hungry pew.
And the load of labels
They hang on their necks
To deceive the credulous flock.

Yet it hurts me deeply
To see the false dogmas
Pouring down from the pulpit these days.
Stranger and farther from the truth
They keep getting nowadays.

And by their fruits ye shall know them.

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