On top of spaghetti

Flying_Spaghetti_Monster

Tempests we in teapots
Orbit as we scrimmage,
Blaspheme God above,
New improve our image,

Worshipping ourselves,
Letting off some steam,
We carbohydrate God,
And float Him in a dream.

A pasta monster muted,
Trapped in time and space,
Changeful, convoluted,
No mouth about his face,

Without a Word for man,
And fully mutable,
As patrons we demand
Our God consumable.

Without a God to serve,
We’ll serve ourself you see,
A dish of our construct,
One of banality.

One we may consume,
Served rightly to our taste,
One where there’s always room,
When in our belly placed.

Philippians 3:17-21 – “Brethren, be followers together of me, and mark them which walk so as ye have us for an ensample.(For many walk, of whom I have told you often, and now tell you even weeping, that they are the enemies of the cross of Christ: Whose end is destruction, whose God is their belly, and whose glory is in their shame, who mind earthly things.) For our conversation is in heaven; from whence also we look for the Saviour, the Lord Jesus Christ: Who shall change our vile body, that it may be fashioned like unto his glorious body, according to the working whereby he is able even to subdue all things unto himself.”

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