The pope, His Holiness

Held together with scotch tape and paste

Available at any Parochial School Arts and Crafts

Where old lies are refurbished

And young orifices defiled


The Nuns, their blackliness

Barren, bleak, starched and parched

As dry as the Judean desert of their dreams

Where old lies are revived

And young bodies are on fire


The Priests, their penislessness

Arrayed in gowns and wearing smart frowns

Shaking incense like witches seasoning a cauldron

The crucified bloodied idol

Provides the flock with renewed  bile


The Ministers, officiate, administer

With tired tribulations with tact and tedium

Rectitudinous rectors, every last one

As stolid as the blandest oatmeal

Seed of Debauched Copenhagen, Berlin


The Rabbis, their Rabbinicalness

Written in tomes heavy to crush your bones

With manifold edicts from talmudic thrones

The wizened men look like crones

Are as conniving as Perons


The Mullahs, in their me, me, mommy mommy

In the sheer infantilism of their screaming screed

Where heaven follows suicides

Like cartoon characters who die

And are reborn after the commercial


The Imams, in their me, mommy, mosque and money

Where every woman other than mommy is a whore

And that vapid twit of a thought is an epiphany

In a dogma that teaches the duty to deplore

Every shard of art and beauty


Copyright, David Gottfried, 2010


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