A Wolf in Pastors Cloths

Our shepherd, knowing the way,

chooses shortcuts through the brush and mire.

Our cloths, now stained with

the sweat of self-righteousness.

Our minds, hardened,

like twice burnt wood.

Our leader, losing the way,

posts camp in the brush and mire.

Our stench, so hazardous

the flock begins to wean.

Our eyes, blackened,

like a flock twice burnt.

Our charlatan, crafting his way,

winking at harlots amongst the brush and mire.

Our rot, so desolate,

trees feed on our flesh.

Our hearts, reprobate,

to be twice burnt.