From The Pulpit, Any Last Words For The Public

Written by: Samantha McDougal

     Upon my lastly leave:

I beg of you,
As I stand before the gallows 
And these promises of end,
Do not take to heart
The darkness of doubt
That these shadows do cast.
It is a pious act,
Greeting and dwelling
Into The Land Of The Fat.

They'll beseech you,
These countesses of glowing trolls
And their sightliness of mend.
Do not give a start 
To the blacking cloud
Of our worship died fast.
It's the curious cat,
Greeting and dwelling
Into The Land Of The Fat.

I promise you,
Upon entering these hollows
That your knees will shake and bend.
But steady your heart
To beats of devout
And find flaw in your past.
It is this godly man,
Holding religion as fact,
Greeting and dwelling 
Into The Land Of The Fat.

It is your mother's hand
Holding your own at the stand,
Greeting and dwelling
Into The Land Of The Fat.

Or the magistrates wife,
Tipping the brim of her hat,
Greeting and dwelling,
Biting and swelling,
Shipping then selling,
Into The Land Of The Fat.