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…
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Cucumber Lodge 