Hey, said Marguerite. I remember now
Reading about nutbar locust cults
In a newspaper article headlined
A low carb high protein salvation,
Above photographs of a bearded creep.
If that was you, you have changed quite a bit.
The beak, as I recall, was less pronounced.
The story said the cultists lurked in fields
Before the dawn to catch locusts asleep,
With swarms settled down on cold fence rails
Before, heated by sun, they rise again
To plunder the croplands of all their yield.
It said the creep took all the credit
For wiping out the plague that ate our food.
I believe I skimmed the article only,
But I don't remember sackcoth mentioned.
They wouldn't mention my main product
Unless I paid for a big display ad
To run in the next two columns over.
What a bunch of crooks! It just sickens me.
But that's just the way things work, she said.
And that's my point exactly, I retorted.
Wait! The article mentioned holy war,
An armed struggle against unbelievers.
You urged, I now recall, a bloody death
For all who failed to kneel and plead your God.
Not true. That's misrepresentation.
War is of the soul, an inner wrestling
That will subdue man's inner infidel.
Our secret weapons and explosives training,
The literal interpretation of the words
I sometimes used to expound my doctrine,
Is likewise of spiritual character,
And is not conducted, as claimed, in the camps
Established just beyond the city limits.
These camps exist, it cannot be denied,
But physical fitness is their only goal,
Dance steps taught to small, informal groups.
None of it's true, those stories they ran.
There's no network of cadres and cells
Working to smash this idol from within,
To blow its damn head right off the neck
With some well-placed sticks of dynamite.
Peaceful reform, of course, is always best.
[Lacuna in text]
End of Caput 6
Liber Jonae Contents