Put on your Sunday best, may your God bless,
lock your ball-and-chain.
Take your own flesh and blood, all for a higher good
and the vicar’s debauchery.
Wasting all of your life, seeking a guiding light,
not knowing you’re misled.
Become the perfect bigot, blindly defend the wicked,
believe in rapture after death.
You’re not called a flock for nothing,
You all blindly follow “faith”.
Herded like so much dumb mutton,
when the wolf cries it’s too late.
When the wolf cries :||3 It’s too late.
No evil seen or heard, hang on the “shepherd’s” words,
echoes of state-of-the-ark
No questions thought or asked, submit to chore and task,
ignore the collies’ (warning) bark.
©28.8.2018 Andrew Robert Chapman