Words Spewed From the Thin Man's Lips

Come strutting you tongue-wagging muckrakers. Sit beneath heated helmets, waiting for curls and swirls in you blue hair. Your polished silver will soon be displayed for all to marvel and praise. Oh, the seven deadly sins, like the rings of Saturn, circle heads like haloes and adorn everyone. For who is without greed and pride? Rocks are hurled, but words hurt more. So wipe your faces, you sucklings of bitter wine. Set aside your beads and bangles, and pull up a chair, for there is one more vile. Come! Dine on your words. Listen to the cruel sewage spewed from the thin man's lips, more rancid than yours. Yet he never sucks back the fulsome black muck. For he alone is the eighth ring. Behold the fair-haired talisman! Barbed spears fling awry and land everywhere, for no one is safe. He alone is the archer, the chosen one to deliver truths... the esteemed messenger. Perhaps it is his ruse, an angle, a gimmick, but his scriptures make less sense than dime store gewgaws, for his feet have not filled other's shoes and his steps leave no prints. The wounds may seal but never heal, and he, (along with the blue hairs) will preach in a hollow church to a deaf choir. The only offerings will be tears leaking down deep furrows and face curves, landing on scarred lips, never to be swallowed.