Saturday, June 19, 2010

I show the whore my song of filth & death/ she
says I should have died before I wrote it/ she
doesn't realize I've been dead for years/ if


she could smell herself she'd know that
her pussy too is dead & rotting now milleniums, but
her arrogance makes her think she lives/ thank


God I am one who fast forgives/ though God too exudes
the effluvia of death/ He speaks the word & it comes from
his sick breath/ I forgive dead God & relieve his

pain with meth/ He speeds about like the
mad corpse He's become/ spouting love like some
sex craved bum/ His festering phallus makes


the angels run to satisfy their lust with the devil's dork, as
the good Lord eats worms & beetles in raw pork/ the
Lord goes right to sleep forsaking work, missing


the pope's cattle & their circle jerk, with
little children thrown is as a perk/ it's
enough to make a good man smirk, but


all the good men have been eaten by the capitalist beast, &
Mammon sucks their blood as a spiritual treat, as the
children are slaughtered by the penis of the priest, &


the bishop joins the celebration sucking a sister's teat, &
through his lips squirts the blood of horror that
the bishop drinks & shouts for more, which


brings us back to the beginning & our vicious whore, dripping
the pus of morality from from her venal & lusty core, with
disease & agony squeezed from every pore/ &


today our land is strewn with rotting souls baking
eternally on the devil's coals; so
rejoice, you miserable ingrates, dried


up as festering raisins & foul dates with screaming
furies as your mates, craven dogs of sundry hates!
Rejoice! your bowl of foul


drippings
awaits ...


!

Fritz Hamilton