America has dark satanic mills
We call them mega-churches, what-the-fuck
They feed their sheep with rottenness that kills
They’ll take your money, every single buck
The millers of each dark satanic mill
Are those who prey on all the simple sheep
Your reason has an abattoir to fill
A place to prey on every prayer you keep
But I have got a Bow of burning gold
And I have brought my arrows of desire
My Spear, my sword, are more than strength untold
And yes, I have my Chariot of fire
If William Blake, the Prophet, saw our time
Then he would surely send us Los, sublime.
This entry was posted on Saturday, August 3rd, 2024 at 6:03 pm and is filed under Sonnets. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
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