You Have To Feed A Cookie To The Soul,
That Magnificent Monster Crawling In Circles
Round And Round In The Core Of A Man's Mind,
Its Approximate Location Is UnKnown To Most
From OutSide One's Skull If Not The Host,
Though SomeTimes Science Gets Bold Enough
To Counter The Pompous Spittle Of Their Holy Zeal
With An Overwhelming Urge To Command And Conquer,
Set Up Bubble-Glassed Research Stations And Bullet-Proof Census Tickers,
Hand Out Pamphlets With Treats For Involuntary Response,
Run A Ritualized Process Of Evolution InTo The Ground Of MotherHood,
And Construct New Churches For Architectural Obligations
To A Million Bird Martyrs And Cupid Worm Compromises,
All To Pass Some Endowment From A Cunt's Wafer Off As A Sweet Deal,
Then Instruct The Wet-Nurses Ways To Silence An UpRiseing,
Before A Lost Soul Can Direct A Finger
To Point Out The Lack Of Sand In The Concrete
Before It Sets Around The Frosted Foot Of A Decorated Enemy,
Lest His Pointy Nose Persuades The Irish To Be As His Hounds Of War,
For Green Potatoed Visions Through The Greys Of Their Lives.
