blanket of discomfort, waist to head.

Those who don’t believe in abnegation

walk through this world as if on vacation.

Those who think the flesh not really weak

haven’t learned to turn the other cheek.

In the olde days, witches suffered lashes.

That’s what happens when the spirit crashes.

Take them to the stocks, put them up on blocks,

pummel them with rocks ’til evil dashes.

Each religion has to have a starter.

Often it comes disguised as a martyr,

as if dying for our sins, how most often this begins,

somehow makes their piety much smarter.

Take the heathen to the whipping post,

for his lack of God’s what hurts him most.

If his dying breath welcomes healing death,

then he’s found religion, some can boast.