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You are like sickly thralls to your long-dead master

Watching the skies for signs

Wanting to bend at knees

Spreading your plague of mind around you

A good man needs no gods

A dead man needs no servants

What grows within your twisted psyche is not a god

But a miserable disease

A cancer on your conscience

You're as walking, vomiting, pus-filled contagions

A good man needs no lies

A dead man needs no prophets

You priests and sages, your leaders in faith

Fights flaring - burning, and cleaning the earth

Your temples and churches, your places of worship

Fires roaring - burning, and cleansing the earth

Your homes and your hovels, and your ill-gotten land

Bombs raining - burning, and cleansing the earth

A good man needs no prayer

A dead god cannot answer