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.
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