What is it, superstition?.

What is it then that makes us pray,
That makes us creep and crawl all day,
That makes us read some silly script,
Our pride and confidence slyly stripped.

What is then, that transfers our minds,
To heavens and angels, and spiritual kinds,
To attend Cathedrals in little groups,
To dress in silk as exemplar troops.

What is it then that makes us build,
On fertile land were food was tilled,
Huge Cathedrals, and Churches to,
Just to sing and convess anew.

Does it help in anyway,
To wile away the hours of day,
Dressed in black and on your knees,
Praying to something and making pleas.

Is it selfishness, that makes them think,
We all need them to cower and shrink,
On our behalf, at their request,
So that our souls be sublimely blessed.

The whiff of selfishness stirs the air,
Me thinks it’s just themselves, they care,
The work is easy, and less to think
From competition, they wilt and shrink

This God they advocate with fuss,
When ask for proof, they looked nonplussed,
O proof, O proof, what for you need,
The devils home you’ll go with speed.

My lucid mind begins to stir,
Im in the hands of a blackmailer,
I only ask, for what your sales?,
Then they came back as hard as nails

So business then, shall prevail,
In Woolworths, by an honest sale,
The Church an inquisition me thinks
Proof of content surely stinks.

sherlock AMEN.