The God of This World
He smiles to see his children, born to sin,
Digging those foxholes there are no atheists in.
A Sacrificed Author
‘Father’, he cried, after the critics’ chewing,
‘Forgive them, for they know not what I’m doing.
Power to the People
Why are the stamps adorned with kings and presidents?
That we may lick their hinder parts and thump their heads.
Mystery Story
Formal as minuet or sonnet,
It zeroes in on the guilty one;
But by the time I’m told who done it,
I can’t remember what he done.
Comments