Be It Done Unto Me

I ask this in your name, O Hallowed,
From a heart that is perfectly fallowed:
Please save me from bores,
And biblical whores
With religion roots much too shallowed.

Be it done unto me, O Lord
With a gun, garrote, or sword;
If that preacher espouse,
He will come to my house-
Just beat my head with a board.

It's all, to thy power and glory-
But please, don't repeat that tired story;
I know you'd come back
If they'd give you some slack
And quit chanting they're so very sorry.

Please save me from poems of the religious
Cause my soul; it becomes so vertiginous:
If religion were the source
Of man's soul, of course,
Then it wouldn't all seem so confibulous.