Each sevennight’s end,
seven seals play around my white
male televangelism
informing dormancies and normalcies
not divine,
play around freely,
in turn the mal-informed court my find.
What is this, my re-electionist
prince asks.
Why not, I reply,
with no panic.
I’m the one sacrosanct,
begrudging favors to darkness
and arts that suck.
Aw, shucks, man. I really appreciate
your light fiddling o’ tunes, . . .
and fiddled on I did my sincerity
and did fall laughing at right moments
swapping saintly fortitude for
wealthy magnanimity.
I’m not now famous for nothing.
Am for Him, and
won’t be sleeping again
till blacks and women learn modesty.
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