Holy moley,jam roley poley.

So,listen now and kneel,
its gods-house so you'll soon feel,
a holiness that's sung by rote,
from a doctrine
shouted by a man
who's overly fond of scrote
collared,
like a chain,
to a fiction bound by shame,
some bloke with a funny name,
and a tendency for blame,
who upset all the Jews,
who,
frustrated by the news,
took stone and rod
and fist to flesh,
to score and tear
and rend afresh,
to satisfy a thirst for blood,
and destroy a bloke
who worked with wood,
who,
I'm sure would stop if he could,
clergy playing with underage goods
Pontificate a needless creed,
if you've time for holy need,
but mindful of the tricks and twists
of the wrist,
as the knife blade enters your ribs,
and you gasp,
flabbergast,
as you watch all your past rush by,
with a cry,
you gargle a prayer,
as the last cohesive layer,
of your mind peels away
to a place once seen in the dream of a day
when we thought what we made
would remain,
unmolested,
untouched,
by soft,
decrepit,
liver spotted hands .