A inkling should never expel it self
Not as a smoking diatribe
Especially not oozing from the cracks
Of a chapped upper lip,

None the less that skull protracting sound will break through
Bursting contemporary bliss from within
It had long spent too much time,
Dying on soggy wood as a mere atrocity

It could not be discarded in the ditch of fools
A call to arms was to be made
Effective immediately

The ****** marry will lay in parcels
Along with the gates to our conscious leanings

You’re destroying the Sistine chapel
And ******’s mansion
In one determined swoop

But good god! a slow crumble just wouldn’t do an archetype justice
These ladies must be put down
With rancorous style

Send in their creator
Who better to stomach the redeemer’s stones?

And death was reigned down
In a total collapse of medieval bile

The creator stands in a wicked corner seat
A hand clasped over the shame of his retribution
He would surely hang him self silly
In the afternoon light