she rests in
a rancid abbey.
prays too blindly
to a sugar daddy
who gives the charity
of love unseen,
of love withdrawn.
still if denied,
a love that
scorns.
she got a big ole phatty (phatty)
caught in a rancid abbey,
caught under stifling robes
unfurled like roads
through a thousand different
postal codes
up towards the sanctioned parts unknown.
robes by Daddy.
i have no faith
so i'll critique yours
and sexualize
what lies beneath
your baggy drawers.
i'll call your people
dinosaurs
and take a shit
on the Savior,
then cite a bunch of
Holy Wars
i heard about on hip talk
shows.
no respect for the hope
that there's something larger
and my contempt for faith
makes me smarter.
whose to say?
when I critique,
i'm self-seeking.
no concern for the truth
or your feelings.
i wanna be right.
discourse black and white.
forfeit all nuance and drop my d**k through the
skylight
of the rancid abbey
while you sit and pray.
try to talk to Daddy
to the tune of Dick sings "I Try" by Macy