I stalk the sight of a righteous plight,
of a pious light hypocritically bright,
where I see rosary, ashy majesty,
fasting to craftily revel in vanity.
Gold fills, till silver spills over in bronze;
free will for goodwill fulfills only pawns.
Fighting to free, we devour and plea —
for “to free” we mean “we, for the fee” — don’t you see?
Running in circles unfurled, they whirl,
seeding with pearls of glass that they hurl.
A lie isn’t lying if I say that it’s not —
for when I write the rules, who am I to get caught?