St. Johns Poem by Mad Gone

High on the hill, with nuclear glow
Steeple reaching upwards and onwards
Condemning both weak and slow.
How ironic that man on gods errands
Should fall to earth to let us sow.
At the top of the steeple, orb in hand.
“which hole will I use? ” he shouts to those below
And astonishment as they saw him land
For there was but one, but what did they all know?

From foundations laid, to graveyard fed.
Dante’s troops or cannon fodder?
The sheep rounded up, so easily led.
Was this to be their crusade.
From breed to wed, and now quite dead.
Who turned the water holy?
At last the table is now spread.
By those archbishops and repentant priests
Tone deaf to the job that they were paid.