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Poem

Crowley can suck eggs and men in beds,
The spies can take a long and slutty hike.
Leavitt can take the words she spreads,
And sit for each on cactus spikes.

Magic is but a muse,
A trick a mind performed en masse,
Claiming fiction in the news,
As if evil's in the smoke of grass.

Ghosts and spirits float in heavens,
Hovering in spaces made,
By minds whose faith in 7-11,
Idolize any for which it prayed.

For which it prays, it chooses not,
And rather follows order feigned,
By authority of hegemonic plot,
Unaware that thought is chained.

To the idea of ghost,
And the idea of ghoul,
To ideas enslaving most,
Take me not for simple fool.

Dare to haunt me with your trends.
Try to trick with mental cleanse.
Waste the tax your effort spends,
That we pay to meet your ends. 

That which haunts my wicked mind,
Says your stories reek of weakness.
Attempts at herding all mankind,
Lack the power of uniqueness.

God is but a sense that slaves,
Are made to serve the worst.
Of humans using fear of graves,
Holding power with an evil thirst.

Money isn't made by hands of work,
Rather spread to viral loads.
To who were born to use the murk,
And hide from whom each owes.

To the warlocks, witches, sorcerers, and hags,
Casting spells to stick the muck.
Beware the eye of a focused f?g,
Immune to plans to make us stuck. 

I cannot be broken by your fiction,
Nor can my brethren here on Earth,
And now I reveal my own prediction:
You'll soon face all that we are worth.

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