They’re gonna hang me from their dark rafters,
making a right spectacle to gawk and glare over,
for what vipers can manage to drain out of it,
whether it’s actually entertaining is beside the point,
gotta thoroughly teach some slob a fierce lesson,
so witnesses remember how to act in company.
I never detect your repulsive imaginings screaming,
or needed any of this childish chain for buttering,
as you myopically paint the ghastly shadows white,
then finish them by reaching high for that mocking sun,
in hopes this pain will eventually relinquish you all,
but us aliens discern that ain’t really its bent purpose.
Of course your filthy clergy are beyond reproach,
egregious politicians lying armed for their sick divides,
piling degrees to build a wheelchair ramp to Heaven,
from mired golden teeth come the meanest utterings,
beneath ugly whispers to publicly draw and quarter,
ending grisly sessions in a celebratory knife sharpening.
Better melt Oscar below those fuming torches for his stage,
where that fat lady barely breathes in your latest debris,
certainly doing a whole hell of a lot more than only singing,
across her worn knees busy praying to another resurrection,
bringing the long-dead their justly purse of faithful honor,
the ol’ lip service for thugs howling behind a spurious pulpit.
Sharwrong's Song 