When the scrambling for Truth is over
And God, suffering from the munchies,
Is eating travelers off the narrow road
That leads to everlasting life,
Let us meet at a market place called Facebook
Far from airless cloisters where
Zealots have turned zombies,
And merchants are counting the dead
As though they were pieces of silver.

Let us lay on the edge of our walls,
Sipping on a beautiful dream,
Enticing the madding crowd
With a hankering for the magical
To our broad and spacious
Inventories of Friends.