Pastors posting fluff on Facebook
longing to be liked for being hip
read from the dull world’s losing playbook
to sink with their own authorship;
virtue-signalling to the flock
(a milky slice of soggy toast)
while gallivanting ’round the block
and hoping that you’ll like their post.

I’m drowning in your holy water
Though you got it from the tap.
I’d pray about it, but why bother?
I’d be just another kind of sap.
I’ve heard your words for a lifetime
And they still don’t make much sense.
They seem to support your lifestyle,
Earn you enough to pay your rents.

I’ve read your documentation through
And I’m not buying the whole deal.
It may sound good to people like you
But, I am convinced it is not real.
You take the words of millennia ago
And interpret them far too liberally.
You brag about caveman miracles
And quote from them too literally.

Then changes happened the time
That Yeshua guy hit the world stage
And things switched from god, to
The 'worship of a human being' age.
That’s a reversion back in time
To when we knew so little about
What lightning was and also how
Babies got started and came out.

Now, twenty one hundred years
After our Anno became Domini,
People are still bending down
To kiss a ring that means naught to me.
I have no trouble having reverence for
People who act like a holy spirit
But rockstar status for preachers?
I want nothing more to do with it.

As long as the poor and weak starve
Churches don’t need my wherewithal.
As long as the downtrodden suffer
True abomination is a huge cathedral.
I know this will offend some of you
Who find gods in the clouds comforting;
Believe slick tent preachers and priests
Deserving of mansions and gold  trappings.

You gave us angels and demons
And no lessons on fighting evil
Except for us to pray
The demons away
And put angels please
On our Christmas trees.

You designed specious poetry
And insisted it was truth.
You corrupted our youth
With jealousy and hate
By teaching us natural
Was simply not natural.

You dressed in golden cloth
And in disgusting holy sloth,
You designed palaces
And bejeweled chalices
As you grew roley-poley
Then declared yourself holy.

You set up rules of sanctity
That you, in your insanity
Could never live up to
Not even come close to,
Because your image was not
Like the rules we have got.

A confidence game by scamsters
Who only want to be masters
Of a race of the gullible
And socially malleable.
Your morals are a mystery
Since the beginning of history.

Why call me names
Because I am an atheist
And say we can be friends?
And if not an atheist;
Because I don’t do church
Especially the church you attend?

Is that any different
Than praying in church
To some invisible God
Sneer if you wish
And call it a sin, but
I call it more than slightly odd.

It’s not my fault
Your religion has built
Loopholes into your credo
That let the bosses
Spend billions of dollars
Protecting millions of pedos?

You religious fanatics
Might take some advice
And look to the mote in your eye
Before you cast aspersions
To the rest of the world
Because some day you will die.

Then, according to your
******* up superstition
You’ll have to deal with the cloud guy.
That thousands of years old
Idea they had way back when
They had children but didn’t know why.

You know, that guy upstairs
With the awful temper
That tells you who you get to love?
That unseen dictator guy
From a mouldy old poem.
Who runs the whole show from above.

As for me, I chose the alternatives
To do what is right without the superlatives,
To love people without any threat
A choice too many have not made yet.
A loving but jealous and wrathful god?
Even those words put together sound odd.
If this omnipotence were on the level
Why not smite the heck out of the devil?

I never understood that stuff about Eden.
Why have just one tree off limits even?
To people who were basically children
Why was part of paradise ever forbidden?
Any parent will tell you about their kids
They would do exactly as those two did.
You couldn’t keep them away with a truncheon.
Those kids would have a ****** luncheon.

Oh, and what a self-righteous creep was He
To do what what he did to Job endlessly.
It has always sounded evil torture to me;
The work of a cloud-bound twisted bully.
Then for no reason anybody could ever tell
He created a son and then cast him into hell.
He let the Devil make a punching bag of Jesus.
This God creature seems to do what he pleases.

So what about this legend is so wonderful
That we heap money on priests by the basketful?
We create huge bejeweled palaces everywhere
And insist they are houses of God and swear
To visit them will make us all godly creatures.
Yet we demand no solid proof of those teachers.
If a car salesman delivered like that on a promise,
We’d take him out to and pound him into pumice.

I live in a world of intolerant people
Who insist their way is the best.
Many say theirs is the only way;
They totally reject all the rest.
I always have had trouble with that,
Saying their loving god hates;
That their god would choose some to
Leave standing hopeless at the gate.

I read the books that believers claim
Will cleanse me and make me blessed.
They verbally promise heaven to me
If I but bend my knee and request
Acceptance of a human turned into god
For my personal and holy savior.
It has always seemed to me to be
A rather superstitious sort of behavior.

It smacks of me throwing salt around
To promise myself the best of luck.
Or avoiding stepping on any crack.
Mumbo jumbo for which I have no truck.
I read more than the books of religions
To find out where the myth came from.
I am now informed about the eucharist
To know I don’t need a single crumb.

I don’t disparage those who believe
Any more than those who wear copper
To ward of arthritis and rheumatism.
I’ve seen those beliefs come a cropper.
Let others sing songs and nursery rhymes
About golden streets and pie in the sky.
I prefer reality in the here and now.
I’m not a bit superstitious, no not I.

Religion can be somewhat stygian
Often is as a matter of fact.
It isn’t all fluffy clouds and saints.
Like in their published tracts.
Not all of the promises made
Will ever come true for you.
The miracles they talk about
Are they facts? Very danged few.

Wail and sing hosanas
Hail to the golden calf.
How to tell who’s bananas?
Separate wheat from chaff?
Give lots of money to churches
Buy many more holy chalices.
We are such a poor country
With far two few golden palaces.

Remember all Christians are holy
No matter the evil they may do.
They just confess it on Sunday
And then they are better than you.
And even though Muslims all came
From the same book up to a point,
They are all heathens and hell bound
No righteous forehead to anoint.

Wail and sing hosanas
Hail to the golden calf.
How to tell who’s bananas?
Separate wheat from chaff?
Give lots of money to churches
Buy many more holy chalices.
We are such a poor country
With far two few golden palaces.

Nobody gets to go to heaven
Unless they are from the right church.
Anyone not in that category will,
The day of atonement, be left in the lurch.
Remember their god is wrathful
And will drown all your children for sure.
So, unless you are “washed in the blood”
You’re going to hell. There’s no cure.

Wail and sing hosanas
Hail to the golden calf.
How to tell who’s bananas?
Separate wheat from chaff?
Give lots of money to churches
Buy many more holy chalices.
We are such a poor country
With far two few golden palaces.

The words went
The Land OF The Free
But apparently that
Did not mean you or me.
The words went
All men created equal.
I think they will want
To change that in the sequel.

The words went
And So God Created Man.
Maybe the Causasians
Saw another way it ran.
It seems the white people
Thought it meant only them.
The rest of the colors?
Their chances were slim.

Those not Christian
Were seen as the enemy.
Change the name to animals
That’s what the Christians did see.
Not all the Christians, true
For some heeded the words of Christ;
Those with wealth and money
They armed themselves for a heist.

They turned their Jesus
Into a trademark commodity
And declared all other ideas
Either blasphemy or an oddity.
They bought airtime and then
Bribed some weak-kneed politicians;
Made laws against the rest
Even if we buried them in petitions.

They put up tents and temples
Like golden bejeweled mansions
And proclaimed as holy
Each and every gilded stanchion.
They bought the best robes
Highly expensive rings and shoes
And claimed they were helping
The poor they chose to abuse.

We are meant to revere them
And their gaudy choice of dressing
And humbly hit our knees
Then pule and grovel for their blessing.
Because they didn’t mean
For us to take that free stuff far.
After all, they are rich
We’re nothing but what what we are.