She was a sheep in wolf’s clothing
baring store-bought fangs
in struggles to kill his indiscretions
and rage against his mal intent
Tilter against windmills, she
toiler in the lonely moistness
of the southern sun

She would roar, sound and fury
yet with a hurricane’s eye
the calm amidst the storm –
torrential tears in tattered tropics
flooding the scorched earth
a mudslide of malcontent
to quickly follow

Against the windmill, she
into the breech again,
Jeanne d’Arc taking counsel
from voices that would save her
from pointless Crusades against
Drunken Princes of Impiety

From God these voices, beckoning
our Jeanne to walk her gentler path
For sheep are blessed of Him
and wolves are but demons
wrapped in lies and

Princes are but little men
with small penises
instead of minds.

3 thoughts on “Impiety

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