Читать книгу Pearls Of Poetry - André Cronje - Страница 6

Holy Cow, they did it again,

whispering sacrilege at the funeral parlor?

Show and tell, how they intoxicate,

Chanel with the scent of death,

burning incense with pressing Tabac.

With sticks and stones, drums, and beat,

Harry would pot and craft Celtic chants,

to Charlie and his angels, dead and gone.

Like haunted ghost their demons,

would come to the party and cartel,

Sounds like Lucifer, the angel who fell.

Public and proud they assault,

the innocent with insults and injuries,

using blunt objects of democratic speech,

to viral hatred that contaminates,

with twisted words, deceiving open minds.

What are they scheming, no one can tell?

funneling evil artistically, with a spell.

Wondering souls, darkened by the hour,

Comical they poke obtuse holes,

to curse the blessed peace off this land.

And with games of immorality,

they build their thrones with anarchy,

to stain and profane brands and names.

Moh, they laid to rest after the terror,

Yet they keep mocking the blessed Christ.

Wicked and nasty, they post to shame,

Claiming liberty, by horseback-riding,

human rights, and the public press.

Fearing no one, not even God. Wish they

did to escape his wrath to come.