Country's aswirl in loathsome faux holies,
Such as Frist and Delay, who might be parolees
Like Jim Bakker, who did some time, thank God he's gone. . .
Pat Robertson, Jerry Falwell, the list goes on

They are fakers,
Their flocks can't see.
Oh how saccharine are their pleas
For the money they plunder so affably.

Gotta wonder how this motley crew
Avoids taxes as politics they spew.
Until Harriet he named, they liked the goon
Born with, in his mumbling mouth, a silver spoon.

They are poseurs,
Where's the posse
To bring 'em for all the flocks they fleece?
While they're at it, they oughta grab Ed Meece.

They blast you about brimstone and fire,
They tell you you'll stew forever in hellfire
If you don't cough up and do it very soon.
They start dictating November vote in June.

They are scammers,
Hypocrisy
Is their religion--and the golden fleece.
From every buck they suck, they grab a piece.