I was in the basilica last Sunday.
I heard your spiteful sermon to me.
Acrid, but quite therapeutic.
Indeed a peaceful knight.
Your sword in its sheath you reposed
But your tongue as a dirk, to its hilt,
You held in stabs of feeble excoriation.
My flaws I know
Am not yet on my acme,
Am still in my kindergarten
Under malicious excoriation whoever grows?
Excuse me for a moment, to speak to your acolyte.
For I over heard, someone he called a fool.
Now you candle light bearer.
A clown in dire search of a crown.
Now tell me who the fool is?
You have your limbs working.
But you chose on crutches to be walking.
So well, I know your story
One bit, it isn’t holy.
Dare me not I implore
On the market square clothe line,
To hang your disgusting dirty linen.
For I won’t be very lenient .
Whoever asked for your opinion?
You think my arms you could pinion?
You want to be in the train of the scorners.
Your usual game of trying to feel among.
So your ego could go aloft, for you to get along.
You think, this way you could get to a haven.
Oh, oh, this is the route to a cavern.
In peace I scorn your duel.
For the sky I seek to dwell.
Now back on the crux.
My gaze I fix on the cross.
I writhe not, fret not in the gallows
Of your sarcasm.
Though my bow now I take.
Leaving the podium for you
My superstar preacher.
Until judgment day
If there would ever be one for you.
Then, your face I will see.
A warm hand shake I will accord you.
For such a benign bloke you are.
You raised me up where you meant
To bring me down.
My super star preacher.
Dedicated to my kempton park preacher