I don’t mean to be insulting
To all you devout Blisstians
But I am not, and won’t be
Any kind of American Christian.
I have studied long and hard
Over a half century of years
And thus, I shall leave you all
To your hopes and your fears.

I find your religion
A strange philosophy.
It doesn’t quite work,
Or so seems to me.
Your god will have
An End Of Days mess
You do what you want
And then you confess.

You can be a right prick
Until you are ninety three
And then confess to Jesus
And you’re home free.
So, tell me again, please
How does this thing go
That there are things that your
Omnipotent god doesn’t know?

It doesn’t seem to be
Well thought out to me.
After thousands of years
Of sainted holy history.
It sounds more like it’s
A money-making scheme;
A deferred payment plan,
A fun-house ride of screams.

Looking back on the stories,
Two thousand years of war;
Of persecution and burning
And horrendously much more.
And who wrote what and when,
And more importantly why,
This mythological poem here
Could make a grown scholar cry.

So, I shall reserve my judgment
About your Judgment Day
I’ll go on and live my life
In a kind and considerate way.
I won’t put on your robes
And make your sacrifices.
I will thank you all to leave me
To my own Un-Christian devices.


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