People keep killing one another over religion
So we analyze the apocryphal texts
For differences that could explain the turmoil
And **** one another over the answers we find

There are those that love and those that lust,
Those that stay calm and those that combust,
Those that hate change and those that adjust,
Those that spread charm and those that disgust,
Those that can resist and those that rust,
Those that trek on and those that bite dust,
Those that doubt and those that can entrust,
Those kept quiet and those that discuss,
Those kept weak and those that are robust,
Those with a vocab and those who cuss,
Those off course and those who readjust,
Those of the bold and those that just blush,
Those who rest and those who make a fuss,
Those who speak soft and those who are shushed,
Those not denied and those who are crushed,
Those that don't care and those that ask, "What?".

The Wainscot Weasel lost an eye to a fight with a bird,
But it’s what he did next which makes him absurd.
It’s because he fell in love with a fish in a pond.
In another life he might have belonged,
But his fur had no scales and his single eye swam with tears,
So from a distance he watched her swim through the months and the years.

A year is millennia for a young weasel to wait.
A year is a long time for even an animal to contemplate.
The sun lingered on the water, its surface filled again from the trees.
A collection of orange smudges then reflected the leaves.

The frogs have all croaked and new birds’ calls now echo,
And still sat a lonely, but quite happy fellow.

He followed her tail’s drag through the painting of his existence,
And finally he could no longer put up resistance.
He lowered himself to the pool where she swam,
And the Wainscot Weasel was never heard from again.