Led by decievers, sharp-toothed shepherds,
by wolves decorated in the palest of fleece,
the sheep fall into line.
Spiritual catharsis the addiction, they tie the beaded tourniquet,
and place hypocrisy upon the tongue.
Sin tainted water lapping their white coattails
liquid contradiction soaking their wool,
the domesticated beasts stand in a stagnant river.
Cleansed of the evils of thought, numb from the drug "Salvation",
they feel not the fires of the Pit.
But only damnation awaits those on the bank,
where the black sheep impure trek by burdened heavily.
A mark upon their brow as their only birthright,
their progress burns unquenched.
Their throats scorch raw with thirst never slaked.