Supper Time in America

They stand in the streets pulling at their hair and gnashing

their teeth

They stand in the streets pulling at their hair and gnashing their teeth

A great cacophony of sound arises from their collective lips

Crying out for their ancient God, they scream His sacred pseudonym at regular intervals

Their sound deafening, neither Mammon nor the Demiurge hear them now

And the Bull is but a statue

The street corner is silent now, and the idol worshippers have left Broadway and Morris

All three of their Gods have failed them, though they cried out to the Bull to deliver them

The sad pattering of their feet can be heard now leaving into the distance

Will they find new Gods to save them from the hell of their own creation?

They seek out solace in their dying world

The lesser among them call out for blood,

While the greatest among them regularly bathe in it

None can comprehend the mysteries of Heaven and Earth

Yet they attempt regularly to control their functions

Seek ye the darkness and forsake the light

Hypocrisy, hypocrisy, hypocrisy!

The preacher shouts from the pulpit, afterwards counting the millions in his accounts

Millions of dinarii, when his Lord was bought for merely thirty

Millions of lives destroyed by their self-righteousness

Millions more to be enslaved by the will of their Gods

Now is the time for reakoning!

The coward shouts from his chair at the banquet table

So much blood has been spilled

So much blood to be spilled

And yet more needed to quench the thirst of their Gods

Freedom, Freedom, Freedom!

The slave shouts from his hovel, the chains about his wrists

The chains he readily wears, if only to ensure his daily bread

The chains that he thinks protect him from harm

The chains that open him up to his own destruction

Let us say grace!

Grace from ourselves

Grace from our sins

Grace from the destruction we have unleashed on our world

We beg for grace from our ancient Gods, who have long since stopped listening