Saturday Street Preacher

I venture out For the first time in a while And am met by a sight: A Saturday Street Preacher, His altar an upturned crate, Voice amplified by a tinny megaphone. He reads not from the Good Book, But shames those who are not like him. He calls their lifestyle sinful, Their existence a contradiction. His congregation is The cacophony of furious, raised voices Arguing against his every word. Is it a perversion of faith To force teachings onto the unwilling? To twist the words For your own bigoted narrative? Saturday Street Preacher, You are more akin to a pariah Than the bargain-bin Messiah You think you are. You cannot hide your true feelings In the pages of sacred scripture And claim them to be gospel. Saturday Street Preacher, He dresses for his sermons in Jeans and a t-shirt, Bible brandished as a weapon And that weakened upturned crate Beneath his weary feet. He performs his midday mass To the masses who Scream their retaliation in return. His Sermon on the Mount Is muffled shouting In a busy city centre.