the front rows tinkling champagne glasses
and gobbling bits of blood soaked wafers

between unimaginable prayers to sad antiquity
with ferocity looking for a new ride to something

like an open door policy to heaven’s gate
where the only certainly is not only that it is shut

crumbling rotting and vanishing in a cloud
of poisoned smoke and bad air exploding

in the blue ridge night falling into the pews
that will vanish in the wave of the coming flood

of unchecked pestilence roaring screaming
into the blood and pores of empty lost souls

good night and good luck