The Curmudgeon

YOU'LL COME FOR THE CURSES. YOU'LL STAY FOR THE MUDGEONRY.

Sunday, July 06, 2014

The Ape Divine

With fanfare shrieks, creation's flung
All in a fragrant privy heap;
Respectful gobs of praise and dung
Fly up from knuckle-dragging sheep.

His clergy whoop and celebrate
From ancient times to here and now
As, chattering, they calculate
The angle of his slanted brow.

The cosmic mysteries he mulls,
Well guarded by his grunting flocks,
Surrounded by the sceptic skulls
All holey from the faithful's rocks.

His holy grimace holds the meek
Obedient multitudes beneath
His Law, whose convolutions streak
The yellow tablets of his teeth.

The sports in evolution's race
And all their scientific kin
Due homage yield, when forced to face
The drooling wisdom of his grin.

Amid their daily ruts and runs,
His acolytes their tambours beat,
Applauding suffocated suns
Extinguished under hairy feet.

Rev. Sorbus Malbarb

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