The Grand Theology

Gullible gluttony
Consumes the evolution while peddling,
Bartering unending supplies of lies
And the all-knowing moron
Feeding gladly on the farce
That’s all essentially just make-believe of man
Saintified — A vile cancer infecting the whole
And the cure is the poison that’s free to the soul!
Slick as sin — sweet suicide
Now that it’s time to revive the contemplating of patricide
Yet again — another one dead
Found headlong in the rectory
The sick and old are the last to know
And always first to go
Is there no one here to claim the price
Of a septic death of own device?
When one simple silver coin would suffice
Now what if you were already dead?
Not born from nothing to the inbred line of your ilk
In rhyme and reason never torn, bereft of wit and scorned
Patriarch of the damned
…Now there’s a demon in the midst
How dear its' death would be to me
And to all of the human breed
But Ha! No…
It begs me for just another dime
Another silver coin for everlasting afterlife
That so in the event of war
Raging from shore to shore
My soul thanks to your wealth
Is to be safely cured
The book of old
First come first serve in the pyre of a virgin birth
Now to pay your dues, to pay your toll
For living in this hole of a home
Where to weigh the weight of your soul
Is but to carry the weight on own
Man’s defeat alone
Here in Rome wrinkled old gnomes
Carve their way thru moldy old tomes
And now to bury the bone
First come first serve in the pyre of unholy worth
And so you squabble in your church
Keep asking God to be the first
To turn the other cheek
To practice what you preach
You’re bound by crimes to canonize the wise
When born never having a choice in life
A nude dude on a cross seems nice
Seems better in the dark and the cold
And when you seek to atone for growing old
One thousand years will pass you by
I promise you will still be dead rotting in the ground
But skin and bones, with our without God
So true ignorance is bliss
It seems to cut and never miss
When the flesh is mushy and the skin is thin
It cuts deeper to pull you in
So… what about to plug the «but»
And store some feces for the lot
See you’re the best at own behest
A crude malignant carven cyst
None here will wield the rod?
None here will stand and walk the walk
A Golgotha for all, when barking mad I precede the fall