|
Words verbose, gory to what end do they serve? |
|
Or images vivid, scarlet, horrors, absurd |
|
Of shrieking sounds that evoke the legions of hell |
|
The notes that you choose and the beats that you sell |
|
You're not giving all the glory to Him |
|
Because your artwork depicts a severed limb |
|
And all the people buy into your deceit |
|
Because you're keeping way too frantic a beat |
|
They said to Bach three hundred years ago |
|
"You work in the church there's something you should know |
|
We hired you to write music that glorifies |
|
But theses toccatas and fugues just simply horrify" |
|
He said, "They're simply notes put together in bars |
|
And why you think that's wrong I just throw up my arms" |
|
Eviscerate words that evoke emetic thoughts |
|
Dissect and discard what speaks of corpses in rot |
|
The leprous stumps of the sick and the lame |
|
The stoning of Stephen, Job's scab covered frame |
|
And John the Baptist, a head on a platter |
|
Remove this gorefest, why should it matter? |
|
You say this place beckons evil spirits |
|
But I care not what you call it |
|
To me it's two hundred beats per minute |
|
On tablature, I scrawled it |
|
If you arrived at the site |
|
Of Cavalry's scarlet fright |
|
Would fears have made your feet take flight |
|
And turn away from our Lord's plight? |
