Messengers of doom
They are the saints in amorous garment
they polarise households with invented prophecies
They secure us under the watch of church wristband
while they curse the streets with deafening sirens in convoys of uniformed men
they blare our ears with sigh-reigns
and plough the poor while they plunder the rich
their lips stink of tithenation
Their shrines are private mints in ecclesiastical garment
their prophecies are cesspool of lies
in their tinted limos, they mask their unrighteousness
But who am I to judge the Laud’s anointed?
Author: Loveday Mcjolly.