Pious Pitiful Pissants

Preposterous musings that fickle the intellectual

As the sun drops for the moons rise

and the simpletons waltz through brooding streets

in search of a little sustenance

Claiming the faithful for a few extra quarters

And squandering the goals of the fierce

Depositing the corpses at the back of the line

Where the smell will be less foul

And in limited time the prophetic fiends

will frequent the places of worship

Granting ill will in prayers for the damned

Who drown with the sinking stones

but be it not for me to judge

those that drudge the bottom of the pond

in search of a few extra dollars

for the four horsemen

For they beset upon the few

Who control the buttons

that can obliterate the oblivious fools

Geniuses in turns 

Mostly in blows

With sharpened pencils not unlike daggers

firmly held and then firmly planted

Waiting for the midnight howl.