Soiled, he comes apathetic
In his clandestine bounty,
Woe, poor children,
Look at him, self-prophetic,
Numen to the children of the house.
All step away, now. All step away.
He comes bearing ineptitudes,
Sour stains of poor memories
Perspired upon page after foul page.
Hey, Savior, explain your dark self!
He cannot—value is slumped
Dead on a sandalwood cross.
And his brain is in his cock,
But he cannot bless worth a shit,
So he preys with his simple eyes,
Maybe to his father, or other gods
If Armageddon comes to realize
The platitude of his misguidance,
Linguistics weary without convictions
Or a slim taste of wisdom to hang
Hope on a wall above a well-used bed,
A sad Jesus-man on a forgotten crucifix.
©2005 Todd K. Bush
