the curtains are down, but they’ll soon reveal
a most inter-esting play
the lights are dimmed round the stages keel
the strings all finding A
the woodwinds leap to lead the charge
oh how the notes do fester
the curtain’s up on our little dirge
act I, Jesus Christ, Child-molester
Here’s a man of 33, who never lays with chicks
hangs around 12 random dudes, you get the basics
He’s never married, or so they say, but let’s avoid polemic
he represents the God of love, yet in the bible hate’s systemic
he says a bunch of preachy stuff, that contradicts his father
who promptly has him cruified, why exactly do we bother?
I am not involved in family squabbles, nor am I a Roman
so I don’t feel much guilt for him, nor think his death an omen
They say though he’s the son of God, and yet he is a god, that’s the gist
then how can those who believe in him, count themselves as monotheist?
Let’s all pretend that 2 are 1, and leave out the confusing 3rd
and see this god for what he is, from the eye view of a bird
Here’s a man who makes two kids, one out of the other?
And to propagate the species, basically Eve is screwing her brother!
They all run around nude in their father’s back yard,until a talking snake
gave Eve a magic apple, of which eating was a big mistake?
They’re all kicked out of daddy’s house, to live a life that’s hard
Am I suppose to love a God who acts like an unreasonable retard?
He sends to us this little book filled with lots of little gems
about how to live and how to die, when he decides, and then only for him
To him, a woman is less than human, and with her a man would be defiled
and cannot get into heaven, basically get laid and you’ll be exiled
Who came up with this nonsense, and childish man-centric quips
look, you can’t have more dudes without that thing between her hips
This book is filled with inanities, and proclamations baudy
pointless homoerotic rants, and hate for a woman’s body
His plot for life is wooden at best, hardly befitting a God
in comparison, this book of christ, reads like it was written by D. A. F. de Sade
The problem is, Nietszche was wrong, God’s not really dead
he’s alive and well, at the back of every psycho’s head
the Christian God’s a twisted man, a child abuser through and through
and if you follow him, then guess what? He’ll abuse you too.
The audience, still in their seats, with nary a person clapping
the sound of crickets resonates about the room
The silence is deafening, what is the sound of a thousand tongues not flapping?
people don’t really care, doubt Christ and things go boom!
It’s not that they disagree, we all see the truth
the problem is, if God’s that mean, then use some common sooth
Best to just not make him mad, and do what he commands
if you have to serve a madman, then choice escaped your hands
best to serve him well and true, and maybe he’ll leave you alone