Ogres once hid behind rocks in the garden
Guarding grass and blossoms
From those who'd defile them.
Evil done from innocent oaks
Wrapped tight in jute ropes,
Those shows for the children
Who stared wild, wide
At white sheets and men dancing
Some curing like hams, hanging from branches.
We thought saints from distance had stopped it -
Carnage in leaves after parades
****** of hate in the streets.
Old stories torched, sealed lips
Evidence lost or forgotten.
Devils unmasked and converted,
Now singing hymns in pews
At white churches on Sunday,
Burning Jesus in secret at night in the forest,
Just trees and stars to bear witness
Their worship of wizards and spiders,
Prancing through ashes like white knights astride
Their grand, imagined white horses.
Saints, grown bored of the chore they started,
Taught men new words to pretend
They'd never offend - at least not in public -
As smoke still corrupts lungs of the children,
Playing old games with new rules they've been given.