| I Demons on the telescreen gorged with blood and Rolex souls. Empires built like anthills blind -- keep those cards and personal checks pouring in, 4 million's the holy quota. Pity them, for they are damned. Clothe them in silks and furs. Give them shelter from their taxes. Comfort them in their motel madness, but leave the Gideon in the drawer; no time to talk shop -- the studio lights are hot, and the makeup's thick. Junior wants his own university just like Dad, and the amusement park needs a new coat of paint. Send money if you believe. Send money if you believe. Tithe to the address on the screen or call toll free. All major discredit cards with the mark of the Beast accepted. Operators are standing by. The Word is free, but have you priceda Ferrari lately? The Word. Oh yes, the Word. The Lord told the twelve, "Provide neither gold, nor silver, nor brass in your purses." Does that mean plastic, too? |
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| Poemission |
| Epistles From a Post-Modern Christian |
| II How many loaves of bread could the jewels in the Vatican buy? Those Inquisitive Spanish, in thumbscrew bolero rapture, hail him El Papa, la potato king, infallible Christ on earth, duly elected in cardinal puffs of smoke, God's Ramrod Rowdy Yates, leader of the pack. Church and State don't separate; gilded spud says condoms no, let their numbers grow and grow. Bwana rama for your Big Mac soul, points to heaven's golden arches -- 800 million served. Rastas say he Anti-Christ, wish him righteous dead through clouds of sacramental smoke. I say the gold of your altars are worth muchos burritos para los gentes. Nicaraguans don't sleep in purple velvet. Ethiopians don't suck on rubies when their throats are parched. You've had your world tour, everybody chipped in? first class single occupancy? but turn in your gold watch, we'll trade it for powdered milk. No man between me and my God. Jesus told the twelve to walk barefoot... and you have the Popemobile. |