Jesus thinks he’s jazzy
jettin’ ’round in his jalopy
with a heapin’ splash of High-Karate
Pageboy locks and sock-like bulge
kafkaesque by all accounts
wrecks resurrected
from the junkyard
rolls in dirt & grease
then acts indignant
when we call him out
and lately
he’s been sporting those archaic perforated jerseys
cut to frame his rippling midfriff
think i’m joking?
scope his new jean jacket
lo, i jest ye not
that shit’s bejeweled
it’s best that we let him down gently
judge him not
though he has sinned
for what is Jesus to us
but a reference point
prone to revisions
made to grade our tragic states
of ethical ineptitude
if we were to face the fundamental facts
based on our actions
Jesus would be turning fast
within his human grave
henceforth, i do decree
that we observe his truths
sans private faction
banish institutions he himself would deem so dubious
if Jesus should become unhinged
we, as his peers
shall be his jury
by vigilante justice rule
it is our job
to save his soul
pray God, forgo those reparations
looming nigh o’er our hung heads
for if we are to shed our earnings
into wayward wicker baskets
i propound, that only Jesus merits his own private jet
