Hell hath no fury than a nun
With a gun that could blow up the sun,
And let God's will be done.

As holy blood merchants and pimped-out virgins
Spawn gangster judge-presidents: they do the crime
We do the mime.

As scrapheap poets intone
Deadbeat lyrics: and
Catatonic bookworms
Infest a dunghill,

Down in the valley
The bellycrawlers multiply.

A symphony of bombs keeps keening,
CRASH/BOOM/BANG: brimful and bright with blood,
The night sinks, deepening/darkening everything.

Hell hath no fury than a nun with a gun.
Let her blow up the sun,
And God have his smile.
'Cause, by god, he's won.

mandla zibi

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/come-sweet-sleep/