Inbred Bishop, The Son of the Horse
My father, they said,
Was a horse.
An equine creation I truly am.
But strangeness is no quality
For forgiving sinners.
No blessings will be found
For the defilers of
My precious sanctum.
Blood spews from rubble.
Can you see? They flounced my churches.
They buggered my priests.
A rage-induced-lunatic I became
When I saw
What They had Done.
Human excrement sullied the aesthetics
Of my church.
I swore my hatchet would cleave scum
When I read the words, daubed there:
"Bastards".
Cankerous animals will grovel and beg
For that.
