Loony Madonna lieing in her bog,
Waiting for the manna coming from the web.
Barren is her bosom, empty as her eyes,
Death a certain harvest scattered from the net.
Skin and bones is creeping, doesn't know she's dead.
Ancient eyes are peeping, from her bloated head.
Followers argue sharpening their knives.
Drawing up their bargains, trading baby lives.
Hear the bells are ringing, post is on it's way.
Hear the angels singing, what is that they say?
Read and and add your scribble, joy is here to stay.
Loony son and father are born again everyday.
(thanks: Food for thought - U B 40)
