It false-talks; it’s a pox,
because it’s The Beast.
Gives homilies ’bout angels
but sits at Lucifer's feast.

Think it's just a schmoe-flake
with its ranting refrains?
It’s Mephisto, masked as angel;
ain’t heaven where it reigns.

In years gone by I read it in a versey magazine,
a Revelation retake in the pages; now I've seen:

The story’s old;
fine poetry had been retold.
Says Yeats, it can’t, the center, hold…
faking as a censor scold.
Its blood runs cold;
to Mephisto it sold its soul.
It lives down an earth’s center hole,
truly hates the censer, stole.

It’s devoted, you might guess,
reading its notes about how it’s blessed.
But it’s sly; it masquerades;
it hides behind its lies.

It shakes its finger at you,
tells you that you are hell-bound and screwed.
But it’s sold its soul, cheaply,
to the infernal guy.

Its oft-fuzzy lectures
mask a black-magus slouch. . .
to march one day triumphantly,
from Hades gates debouch

The story’s old;
Bible's poetry's is retold.
Says Yeats, it can’t, the center, hold…
faking as a censor scold.
Its blood runs cold;
Sly Beelzebub bought its soul.
It lives down an earth’s center hole,
’cause it is the Tempter’s mole.

It bays from the underland,
hell’s hound licking the Tempter’s hand.
It is a dissembler’s spawn;
with “righteous” rap it shines you on.

It’s like Charon, when you're killed,
who takes you to that charred site:
to Motel Hell, with a hot room,
Where the fires burn day and night.

A coterie is in its grip,
their homilies just service lip.
Sorry, but I ain't buyin’.
Sadly, it lurks where trolls are fryin’.

Out from its hole
it emerges to fill its role.
Says Yeats, it can't, the center, hold…
faking as a censor scold.
Its blood runs cold;
to Mephisto it sold its soul.
Its role: to fill the Tempter’s goal,
and it is a vengeful troll.