Religionists Are Like Pooh, a Bear of Very Little Brain

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

While milking breasts of immortality,

That tortured stretched out, racked out thought of life,

We find the awful immorality

Of dreamed up gods.  The blackest kind of strife

In mind arises from this sin of thought

(Or more like superstition sucked from wish),

So great religions, almost all, have taught

That somehow we can live forever.  They squish

The truth away because our childish fears

Are ripe for harvesting the fruit for juice

In Eucharistic cups.  Our childhood tears

Are used.  Priests use our fear for their abuse.

  We’re used to priests abusing little kids

    And that is why religion’s on the skids.