Bishops of the Lord,
clad in the black.
Remorseless and vengeful,
they seem a sober pack.
Sword of the foulness,
they flaunt ferociously-
a display of their might,
doused in the black light.
Hear you mortals, they growl,
but with the calmness of an owl,
For the end is near, and no hope,
for you timid and weary troupe.
Blood and vein, flesh and bones,
for garlands, earrings, and majestic thrones.
An empire built upon hearts-
deprived from all the loved ones they ever had.
Stay away from them – these false prophets;
promising salvation, judging with their mallets.
Trust the golden lord, your personal guide –
that no religion or cult can ever decide.
