Now turgid grows the Stupid God once more.
It bloats, and seeks to make the world its whore.
Who prostitute themselves thus, I abhor.
Now, if they wish to sell themselves, they may,
And peddle themselves for their pimp each day,
For otherwise, of course, I would not say.
What I will rail against is how their deeds
Force me to bend to their cult leader’s needs,
Force me the citrus avatar to heed
Whose hands are far too small to hold to all
That Stupid God through sphinct’ring lips will call
Into its own domain. I’m not its thrall,
Not yet; I hope that I will never be,
Despite the legions of such thralls I see.

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