Windmills were the devil’s implements,
Because they were newfangled.
Work done not by the hand of man
But by machine.
Machines that run and walk
And create black breath
In the industrial fires of hell.
Those millers:
Dishonest, wicked, wretched
Tools of mass destruction.
Limpid waters slowing to
Obey the water wheel.
Mills were pinnacles of evil.
Pawn shops, tax collectors, lawyers,
Eventually stock brokers.
Those suspicious occupations
Then the devil became the executive,
He executed things.
He signed his name and
Sent the orders out, carrying
The future in his-
Because of course it’s a man of quality-
Perfectly manicured hand.
Let’s tear down the rainforests.
Those toads and spider monkeys
And monkey spiders
Are doing entirely too much exhaling.
All that exotic breath is ruining the planet.
Scritch, scratch,
Name is signed not in blood
But in black Indian ink.
The millers,
Hold picket signs aloft
Shout their quarrel with fire in their bellies.
Spiritually uppity, redeemed assembly lines
Trying to be saints.
No comments:
Post a Comment