Preacher been fucking the wife.

Get into a gunfight up and down the aisles;

shooting through pews, winging hymnals,

dinging collection plate;

ricochets whistle ire,

targets praying to acquire.

Near nail the sumbitch

with a beautiful shot,

him skeeting across the choir.

The Son’s hardly settled 

with corn and coke to watch the fun,

when off the rafters echoes click-click-click!

Man-o’-God’s rod emptier’n Satan’s heart.

It’s eye for an eye, tooth for a tit,

dick for a brain. Rush the altar,

jab about, poke around.

Spot Romeo crouched in a niche,

begging Jesus spare a little change;

into a mouse, maybe; so he in

some smelly little hole can hide his hide.

Clap muzzle to temple, jerk trigger, skull explodes.

Blood, brain, bone, hair spatter the cross.

Shrug – no longer cross with the

minister now administered to.

High time head home, get the wife stoned.

After, me and God sit down

to shoot craps with the cops.

Either way I come out on top.

On accounta everybody knows

every good old boy to heaven goes.

Willie Smith

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