The Preacher
Mixed with crimson
and covered with wool.
They receive with hope
the spell of the gospel.
His voice calls with mercy
to devour innocent lambs
waiting jauntily to be sacrificed
on the altar of earth.
Come to me ye labourers
and I will grant you rest
in a place of no return.
One by one,
heads of blessings are counted
and preserved in knackery.
Blood speaks and births
miracles, money and maim-bers
with the seal and smell of death.
Beguiled and bewitched,
they cheer and applaud
to the subtle tongue of their father.
Awaiting the day of reckoning
with their shepherd,
doom calls out to death,
death beckons on the grave
to play and sing
along in high tunes.
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