They built their homes of crystal praise,
Then sold us bricks of shame.
Each window gleamed with spotless haze,
While every neighbor took the blame.
The mayor preached of modest needs
From a throne of imported gold.
He watered plastic virtue seeds
And called the harvest brave and bold.
The gossip queen wore angel wings,
White feathers pinned with spite.
She blessed the town with wholesome things,
Then sharpened rumors every night.
The preacher cursed the gamblers' vice,
His sermon fierce and loud.
Yet counted silver twice and thrice
Behind a curtain, safe from crowd.
We watched them hurl their polished stones,
A sport the righteous love.
The glass sang back in cracking tones
Like judgment from above.
By dawn, their mansions sparkled less,
The fractures plain to see.
For every saint who plays at perfection
Leaves fingerprints on hypocrisy.
Folk in glasshouses shouldn’t throw stones
I’m sick and fed up of their moans and their groans
Why do the throw their stones here at me
Why don’t they hush, and just let be
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