In God’s own name,
the preacher man says
what I say is right,
what you think is wrong.
Listen to me son,
lest to Hell you’d be gone.

His voice like
the roaring of thunderstorms,
echoes from the pulpit
ss his eyes rest on us,
sons of iniquity he calls.

His white robe,
his mark of eternal redemption.
His demands are met
with haste and devotion.
He demands a lot
in God’s name, they say.

Heads nod at his words,
like lizards to empty conversations.
They gather at his feet,
like the five thousand.
Not for bread and fish
but for his honest lies.

Few like me,
do not believe in him.
He’s a sinner at night
and a saint in the morning.
He hugs me at the club,
on Saturday nights.
And condemns me in the church,
on Sunday mornings.

He worships mammon,
on the altar of God
and extorts money,
in God’s name.
From the altar his eyes
wander about like
an eagle for prey,
for the bottomless-pockets pews
who come to dip deep.

He takes the words of scriptures,
and moulds them in his own way.
He calls the rich to dine with him,
and sings their praises
on the altar.
But has no regard for Lazarus,
our brother with
weightless pockets.

One day the pews shall know
that he is a holy sinner,
who has used God’s name
for all but its purpose.
Then they would
have much to fear,
for God would have appeared
far from home.












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