by Nick Gisburne
The Church of the Immaculate Disease
Brings filth and foul salvation, sick, insane,
Its doctrines dredged from deadly, sterile seas,
Where children bleach their purity with pain.
The drunken gods, who pulled us from their piss,
Spread seed to feed the pathogens they saw,
And, in this bleak, abysmal genesis,
Regurgitated pestilence and war.
Contagions taint the tongues their crimes defile,
A curse on every corner of mankind.
Perverted prophets, dirty, drooling, smile
To spill the septic serum they designed.
Immaculate, the Church, untouched, with ease,
Corrupts, controls, and drinks its own disease.
