You Call Yourself a King

Kissing a body

That you've dismembered

With the hacksaw of lust

Pouring yourself

A cup of blood

And drink it like an

Intoxicating fine wine

With the cup of a glorified king

But forgetting that you're

Nothing more than

An impoverished peasant

Smiling gleefully

As you watch the body rot

While the worms feast on the flesh

As fast as they ate King Herod

Although the spirit in charge of the body

Lead with the Lion of God

But carried itself as a servant

Then you play with the mummified corpse

Like a ripped up toy

And play the doctor

As you sew back on

The dismembered parts

Of the rotting flesh

That you consider nothing more

Than dirt to trample over

Unless, of course, you're hungry

Little did you know

That you had drunk

The cup of God's wrath