The pen of dry human bone
scratches on the parchment.
For thirty years he has toiled,
for thirty years he has written.
A manifesto, really,
for the weak and lonely,
perfect sheep for him.
Just the ending left to write.
"I’ll throw in some beasts,
and maybe some disasters,
yeah, this’ll fly off the shelves!"
He writes the devious ending,
and admires his creation.
Three hundred pages of bullshit and lies,
with twine in the bind,
to sew shut the eyes.
His work completed,
he only needs a title.
He rubs the horns upon his head
and snaps his fingers in delight,
"I’ve got a title that’s just right,
we’ll call it the Bible,
it’ll be out of sight!"