Prominent with feet in Your mouth,
then forced through mine,
how You make the rules for everybody,
while preaching a pseudo-contrary,
as Your faithful outmatch the strong,
feeling good with this delicious lullaby,
of breaking bones,
yet obviously not Yours.
Plucking this pale giant’s beard,
down to his frail muscles for Your curtain,
hanging by unwinding sinew,
at last that penciled mustache prevails,
definitely giving You a tale to shout,
except You ain’t hearing anyone else’s,
or also objections to what You’ve bleated,
making the impossible appear in reach.
Pacification torn corrupt from inside,
a dangerous man with peace tight in His fist,
soaring above us assumed truly ignorant,
nobody is worthy to even fondle His robes,
listen deep, but don’t utter a damn thing,
since you’ve been informed of all you need,
which really doesn’t matter though,
because I have one hell of a bite to leave.
Sharwrong's Song 