Superstition

It is deadly supposition.. What is it then that makes us pray, That makes us creep and crawl all day, That makes us read some silly script, Our pride and confidence slyly stripped. What is then that transfers our minds, To heavens and angels and spiritual kinds, To attend Cathedrals in little groups, To dress in robes as ‘exemplar’ troops. What is it then that makes us build, On fertile land where food was tilled, Huge Cathedrals and Churches to, Just to sing and confess anew. Does it help in anyway, To wile away the hours of day, Dressed in black and on your knees, Praying to something and making pleas. Is it selfishness that makes them think, We all need them to cower and shrink, On our behalf at their request, So that our souls be sublimely blessed. The whiff of selfishness stirs the air, Me thinks it's just themselves they care, The work is easy and less to think From competition they wilt and shrink This God they advocate with fuss, When ask for proof they looked nonplussed, O proof, O proof, what for you need, The devils home you'll go with speed. My lucid mind begins to stir, Im in the hands of a blackmailer I only ask for what your sales?, Then they came back as hard as nails. So business then shall prevail, In Woolworth’s by an honest sale, The Church an inquisition me thinks Proof of content surely stinks. John Bishop©. 2003 Email: http://two.guestbook.de/gb.cgi?gid=712376&prot=renxrxICQ: http://two.guestbook.de/gb.cgi?gid=712376&prot=renxrx