I must ease them straight out of here;
They try to stoke their beliefs.
Like no blood transfusions,
You can't vent in no reefs.
And they frown on drinkin' wine. . .
Ploughed men--there's a dearth.
Politely I hear their line,
Which doesn't come from planet Earth.

Really must get them exited,
So reef I light and smoke.
I tell them a homunculus
Is what I worship--"Have a toke?"
I shmooze and ask them if loon Jack'
Does represent their faith.
If so, then false must be his vows,
He's a pederast wraith.

All this throng with "Watchtower". . .
Pitch them from my view.
These men and women seem hell-bent
On disturbing you.

Mouths run like long-distance
Calls while you've sat down
To dine; they won't stop broaching
The pitches they propound.