Preacherman

Hair as dark as brimstone
Slicked back with the oily words of God
Lodged atop a calculating machine
Which contemplates his exodus
From our temple of sickness and death
Shattered truths
The old generations find sweet release
In his consoling and cajoling
Lean against his exclusive relationship
With an ancient Lord
But I see beyond the deceiver's finery
To a soul of fire and recession
That hordes tithes
To save himself from purgatory
A gas-guzzling, economic Hell
This Bible-thumping hypocrite
Attempts to pray away the dark
But candles do not excommunicate inner demons
His own murky heart
No more knows the wandering road
Through the night
Than I understand why
This shadow has fallen across our bloodstained door