You really thought that this bugger was genuine:
That he was fucking the Discourse
And would risk his groins for the poor?
He stabbed you, his Creator, in his nursery clothes
Though he had kissed your arse with stranger oaths.
Go tell it, then, tell it to your Barrista peers:
How, in spite of all that Suspension of Belief,
You’re all gulls, worms and King Lears.
You were just a phase that he was compelled through.
You didn’t believe it then. Then, he unloaded on you the famous screw.
Oh, valiant master who held a torch for me,
For Him, for Her, for those who willed.
Today I see you being hunted to be killed.
Your disciples with their knives have my conscience chilled.
You’re somewhere there in the leper colony.
Those days were somehow cheerful, you know,
Less heavier the breath. They will erase your marks
Upon your death. The guns that you gave me, though, without
Bullets and blade, I keep them there with what I’ve made.
Perhaps one day I may rape and raid.