Pt. 3

So then, slight in form yet gross in content,
I'll not mince words to serve any shitty public convenience
nor collude in crappy games of cruel contrivance.
No, I am divorced from conceits of sacred trinity
not I, nor thee, not even He.
Yet was he not taken down that he might haunt thee, alone?
Now, listen here
Don't know what I want, but I know how to get it'.
Crown? Thorns? Nails? Forget it,
for that, my friend, is also the nature of my song,
no need to ask for forgiveness cos I ain't got it wrong.
Then should sweet temptation sidle up to me,
wearing your mantel or any other,
then I shall bend in unholy union,
drop the cover, prostrate in the smother of it arse an invite.
Wanna give it a try?
Skirt me, dear Magdalene, as you have before,
beckoned only to be rebuked.
Wild me, craggy Nietzsche, ever the more,
reckoned invincible in heady dispute
(least in principle, or so they say).
Then I shall drink from thee,
dear Mary, twixt thy thighs,
and you, Friedrich, from your teary eyes,
to show that the rivers might be dried,
that the sacrament be replete while the scriptures be denied.
Ayee skirt me, wild me, shatter the alphabet,
crush the abacus that we be nameless and complete.