Caught Again

Come, consider his story, People not used to fear. He tells a tale And we entrust him, But he and his kind, We simply disgust them. Prosaic dupes, (We’re quite the fools) Praise God as he goes on And on . . . . . . and on he tells of glory, Battles won - in time. Salute the flagged boxes, There’s no disagreeing. Trust in his word. Praise to his being. Dim-witted lot, (We’re quite the fools) Blood-letting assaults for days And days . . . . . . and days transform to years, Numb to a fall from grace. Treacherous idols, Allaying fears Between each smile, Count souvenirs. Addlebrained chumps (We’re quite the fools) Selling our souls for a penny a pound.