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.