Which is...

There's no rush
but grab a brush
some canvas and some paint
to help me paint a picture
entirely based on scripture
of the perfect saint
Burned at the stake
dunked on stools into rivers
thrown bound into lakes,
grave mistakes.
Witches,
which ease,
a pain that no god can appease,
medicine is not magic to be feared
far more tragic to be adhered
to bile and spite
spittle and drivel
heaped in piles
with spade and shovel
tempo struck by wigs n gavel
Britain's history buried deep
by a price once paid
seems far too steep

By Rote

Stoking cold coals
that fire beneath
a furnace that burns
with righteous self belief,
Removing the dead ash
of cures
traded for cash
Kindling chopped
and blood mopped from floors,
as we kneel to conceal
crimes behind holy doors
Newspaper tapers are lit
to ignite the fight
of might against wit
but we feel
tight leashes and leads
are pulled as we're brought to heel
A match flares
to illuminate the cares
and stares of hard won faces,
so condemn the gays
the lesbians and he-she's
whilst standing in a box
regurgitating faeces