Sunday Morning Robots
The words they never told you
Would surely burn and scold you
They hold you and they mold you like a vase
It’s become to me bemusing
The Sunday child-abusing
Refusing any choosing to think clear
Your comfortable delusion
Keeps you safe from all intrusion
Though your delusion’s sad conclusion comes with truth
For all the things you keep believing
And the lies you’re still receiving
Never leaving still deceiving till you’re blind
Your parents and your preachers
And all the other leeches
From far and wide and far out reaches
All who claim to be your teachers
Mold you, delude you, deceive you, blind you, abuse you
Till the preachers and the leeches rule your mind
Copyright © Herb Alyètte | Year Posted 2010
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