Pillage the Altar
Treacherous blasphemy they called it.
Poetry it was.
No option; altar goes.
Spilling the holy muck-savage's trinkets.
They are dead,
Because their heads were chopped off.
Frittering their insect lives
Worshipping the whores that gave birth
To them.
One hundred gold pieces I would give
To see the Archbishop's floundering despair
As he wrestles with total incomprehension.
His Beautiful Church,
Is a tattered shit-pile.