Author Information
Friar Elliet
Supposed man of prophets nigh
Who occupies so little time
And sings in tune with God come noon
Yet cries so soon of our demise
Preaching softly, speaking lofty
He tries to reach into our heads
Hands so old of chilling bone
That burn us all instead
For he carries his own brimstone
Whom within he bathes in coal
Dumping handfuls into roadways
That poison likes of sad and old
He decorates himself with ashes
And idles all the passers to
Who may agree or shake their heads
But too abide his presence true
A man like clay sins gave to Earth
To deal to us our every due
A desperate blob of slow confusion
Who rains down hammers on those like you
Piggish faced, soiled and skewed
Adrift in greed and so subdued
Puking forth a further passage
As the masses begin to panic
Made of organs that cry in fright
Stepping outward with ghost inside
He convinces all of his divine
Before declaring the world a lie
Though he is this righteous way
He'll simply say in a simple phrase
That he accepts the path of faith
And thou shalt not once deviate
For when one leaves the cleansing path
Their feet are crushed beneath the weight
His is burden, his is trial
As he drinks and meditates
The room begins a whirling wide
And he recalls of all he's taken
Loving women, children, brides
And all that he's mistaken
He recalls, a test of knowledge
That sought to prove his touch with God
And he remembers of his passing
And of all that's gone beyond
He may whimper but continue on
Indulging in his vile sway
Because he's lost his lust for heaven
And turned it on the coming day.
