When nations give God the *******, Remnants of his bronze-age wrath may linger And mess with investments or data-plans Or gender (both the mother’s and the man’s). National cycles of slow boom then bust Reveal the limitations of our dust— And the Lord who prospers may change, and curse From behind the facade of our universe. A tech-addled farce: that’s the dying face Of our graceless, depraved and inhuman race Glowing with sin; lit up by tiny screens Upon which the globalist ends and means Seep into clueless souls. These dead-in-life With which our funereal times are rife, Live for online shopping, Facebook, and sports Immune to all the incoming reports That their doom is hastening on its way Inexorable progress, no delay . . . With the Sovereign Lord, there is no plan B For the tools of a godless technocracy.
Twilight’s wind now stirs. In sacred grove leaves tremble . . . Shoot. Lost my **** keys