The Pulpit

What I would not write is much On the sullied cloak of the clergies. My inkwell keeps running dry Each time my quill feather Is dangled in their direction. A warning not to belittle Or mock the modern day Pharisees Because surely there are A few good men in their lot. Yet you should feel this in the heart. Because therein lies your eternity I care less of the Of the fierce looking bobbies And dogs guarding their calvacades And mansions here on earth. I care less of the fetish manipulation They have over the hungry pew. And the load of labels They hang on their necks To deceive the credulous flock. Yet it hurts me deeply To see the false dogmas Pouring down from the pulpit these days. Stranger and farther from the truth They keep getting nowadays. And by their fruits ye shall know them.