No matter how seemingly affable,
a priest always hopes to be greased;
while others, invoking hellfire,
have us wait for our trip in the hearse
and preach in their suits neatly creased,
these fishers of men that are gaffable,
in this world that they’ve made mud and mire.
That the point of a flock’s to be fleeced
can only be said in light verse;
for religion is simply so laughable
it’s amazing it’s not yet deceased.

*****

Isn’t it amazing that the Pope can claim to have voluntarily taken a vow of lifelong poverty, and millions of his supporters who live in involuntary poverty send money to support him living in a palace? Is it different from a billionaire politician soliciting donations from his impoverished supporters? Is the human need to glorify the tribal god and the tribal leader never going to end?

This poem was first published in The HyperTexts, as part of the August 2024 Spotlight.