The Missionary

White robes glide through the dark,
Like wolves encircle a stranded soul,
Preaching the fable of Noah's ark,
A million stories still left untold.

A touch of gold and holy water,
Then their sins are far behind,
And the poor heathen shivers in tatters,
Sleeps in hunger with a weary mind.

Holier than thou, he stands tall,
He the judge of human actions,
The tatterdemalion's back is to the wall,
In his heart a flurry of emotions.

Nailed to the cross the beloved son,
His sons they run their minds will,
Rots in pain the innocent one,
While the messengers shoot to thrill!

On the parish's head the heathen's curse,
But a touch of gold to keep moving on,
We shed a tear, Humanity's hearse,
Carries on with a funeral song..........