To Rhythm and Blues,
I’ve paid my dues,
with 12-barre chords,
while wishing for hordes,
of screaming fans,
‘fore the piper pans.

And as for the rains,
I’ve known great pains,
from both love and hate,
and perilous fate,
whose puppetry strings,
give impression of wings.

But upon my hunched back,
wounds from the hack,
of a hallowed sharp axe,
that required blood-tax,
to free me from,
those guileless scum.

The ones that I mean,
you’d never foreseen,
with tarot card,
nor prescient bard.
They came from man,
did conscience ban,

until at last,
is became past,
was became when,
and love was made sin.
What a woeful deceit,
disguised as a treat,

and dressed in white,
preaching of light.
A martyr’s burden,
became money’s verb’n,
with all of their might,
they ordered us to fight.

Not in defense,
nor in good sense,
but for something imagined–
A creature with badge and,
toting a deathly steel rod.

And then had the nerve to call it a God.