I'm lying profoundly in the shadow,
With my life concealed deep in it,
The shadow of mythology.
Felicitated I claim,
Because I believe to drink,
From the cup of sanctity He left,
For the 'anointed' like me.
My residence roots within the Kirk,
As the top most rank lies with me,
And my better-half the subordinate,
Jointly we paddle the boat,
Pervaded by the yearning travellers,
Of the promised life in front.
Down the streets I trek,
Diurnally armed with my 'holy' book,
Proclaiming the word to masses,
While warning the earthly to graith,
For the interminable flame is on the way.
"Give to the Lord and be blessed,"
Is the brief orison I have mastered,
To get the lambs out of their dens,
With their oblation to appease the Lord,
Some give harvests and others pennies,
Its a great elation to the 'lord'
At diurnal I give sermons,
But nocturnal hold convocations,
Around the dead-black tables,
With sheep around to pick from,
To fulfil the virility,
And wake up for the 'morning glory'