shit radiates from a halo that circles like a benevolent vulture over crowned thorns pricking into the heads of pious nabobs who spit prayers from their mouths so all that holy saliva can trickle down to their obeisant flock clambering below
belief is not strength, belief is pitiful, it sucks you in and condemns you to obey, pray, obey, pray, obey... they come for us at dawn, the ones who dare question, and we're made to pay for our rebellion. They even try and make us feel shame, with their petty prophesies and their carrot-and-stick morals, but the rebels know better than that.
They live free of fear, after all.
the intoxication of those that lust for heaven is a filthy, dirty kind of drunkenness, the kind that suppurates but disguises itself as manna from the gods, manna that has all the nourishing goodness of pus, pus and phlegm, God's coughing over us all, and it's an old sick dying deity's cough, after all
kneel and pray, kneel and pray, kneel and pray, kneel and pray
waste oh waste oh waste your days away.
