I’m not selling lies to Satanists like
canned goods during Judgment day,
or trying to convert an infidel
devoted to non-believing,
I don’t steal children from cradles
to sacrifice on my alter of clay,
or curse, or hex, or put bad juju
on priests and nuns appeasing
their beliefs,
I’ve fed the hungry in Christian institutes
and I’ve chatted with Latter-Day-Saints,
I’ve never said someone was going to hell
because they didn’t bless me the right way,
I’ve found a truth in my own heart
and I find it to be self-evident – without taint
That I can believe in whatever I want
no matter what you do or say,
Don’t call me unholy – I pray more than most
Just not to your God

I call her Chanel -
because she covers up the stench of her rotting morality
with that iconic perfume of beauty,
Her internal ethnicity is of wrinkles, and  rough skin,
and canines hard like diamonds -
ones that tear up the futures of her stargazers
with ****** nips and snippets behind their backs,
Like truths written on paper that she hates to read -
she tears them up into shreds so miniscule
they could never be stitched back together,
Then she smiles as she strides past
with that aroma wafting from her
in agonizing waves like an ocean of failure
pelting her hypnotized admirers from miles away,
Though she’s miamed their images with rumours
and amputated their hopes with lies
she is to them this kind of idol
set up on a pedestal of severed limbs painted gold,
They see a saviour while I see a snake  
cloaked in an aura of No 1