Craven cupidity, contemptible crow
Your talking is squawking as black as your soul

If birds of a feather would gather your hem
A collection of seamstresses darker than them

Would weave from hole cloth a pattern of lies
From a harvest of calumny dark'ning the skies

Who rates this performance, whose benefit there
With bait this enormous just fit for a bear

Who else in the forest could relish this feast
Galumphing, triumphing, it must be a beast

Wallowing, swallowing, swampy at best
Content to recline there and dine on the rest

Immobile as a trophy, stuffed for display
On future repast, blackened feather filet

Blow hard and bellow with yellowing cries
Gather like fellows who feast on these lies

If chapels had been churches, your cathedral would loom
'stead of gathering shadows in this canyon of gloom

With your bins full of blight and your gather of smut
We hasten to bid you not good night but... what?

We wonder still under quick'ning despair
In search of escape, it must be here but... where?

There must be some light lest this darkness o'erwhelm
We must brave the night til the Good take the helm