Perdition’s Spindle

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A lyric of epic temper.

Woe unto thee hypocrite

Thy voice an empty sound

To iniquity commit

Yet not to thy word bound

Thy transgressions infinite

Such perfidies confound

Especially when largely writ

As plaudits to renowned

Woe unto thee capitalist

Thy voice a nagging noise

Yo sing of being fortune kissed

With frequency that cloys

Aggrandizing egotist

Thy avarice destroys

As extinction catalyst

Ill repute none enjoys

Bodies stacked as cord wood

Oh, the fires we shall kindle

For those who can’t accord good

Rotate on Perdition’s Spindle

Mendacities hail from the pulpit

A loving God’s eternal ire

Mankind roasting slow on a full spit

Subject to perpetual fire

Although they can tell they can’t show it

Backed up by unheavenly choir

They know that they know they can’t know it

In this lie all our leaders conspire

Who knows what the Lord would

In such claims lies the swindle

Their afterlife reward should

Turn them on Perdition’s Spindle

Woe unto thee commander

Thy voice the voice of hate

Our humanity you slander

Enmity thou generate

To industrialists you pander

Lo the pacifists berate

With each new ambition grander

Bloodlust you can never sate

Woe unto thee apathetic

Silently who watch it burn

Contentment in anesthetic

Into fantasy adjourn

Enamored of the aesthetic

The underlying no concern

Combustion unsympathetic

On Perdition’s Spindle turn

At last no one implored good

Thus humans’ prospects dwindle

For all who have deplored would

End upon Perdition’s Spindle

Bodies stacked as cord wood

Oh, the fires we shall kindle

For all who have ignored good

Roast upon Perdition’s Spindle

 

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