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
aiurea press 