Prose

The frocked men are back

At the last Sabbath
Frocked men
Converged at the walls of Mount Carmel.
After a long hiatus.
On one side
Minions under bottle gourd plants
With a sprinkle of voices
Yelling their lungs out, again.
On the other side
Slick masters under the dome
With a thousand voices
Yelling their lungs out, again.
Myriads of spittles in the air
Cheery picking from a multitude of
Men, women and children
Is the pandemic still with us?
The plague will not pass by your house
Let those who believe say amen.
The past we shall not recall
When they went behind their doors, and under their beds.
Yesterday died this morning
It’s body never to be found
But a trial will go on
And some souls will go down
Said to be called by the Lord.
But we must praise the heavens
That the plague is God fearing
Knows we are cows without tails
Lest graves will be dug in advance
Without burial processions and songs
As in the land
Of the King of the South
Who now stands, unmasked, undressed
In front of the White House
With a Zuma Rock Bible
That he never reads.

About author
Publisher and Editor-in-Chief, Newspackng.
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