I'm not cut out
From the cloth
Of the beggar
No morally purer
Than drunken bootleggers
Don't claim to be better
Than junkies
And thieves
And in fact
Often share
In their proclivities
When my conscience agrees
To be righteously wrong
For the sake
Of forsaken
Virtues, all along
I have known to be merely
In theory
No more
Than the voice
In the back of my head
I ignore
When imploring me to
Ask it
What would God do?
Perhaps suffer the many
And save but a few
Of the most loyal supplicants
Bowing to none of it
Proving the makers
Who made us
Are done with it