"Rejoice with them that rejoice"
Says the preacher to the silent pew
Littered with famished lay men.
He places his holy hands vibrating under the fervency of his words
On his rich white caftan and his face beamed with a saintly smile.
The place was less ventilated,
Puffs of air seeping in and out of the house
Like a vagrant child
Despite his whole body drenched with the blessings of the congregation
He cared less but basked in the Lord's glory,
He kept looking around searching for a political clue,
Then his eyes lights on the shabby look of the house of the Lord,
Dead light bulbs that give light to their dim eyes
And moth-eaten stools to support to their flattened buttocks.
He takes the microphone from the preacher
With a creepy smirk on his face
He voices out his incredible promises on the plight of the people,
And how he will turn their roads to streets of gold.
Cheers starts roaring here and there
Like their deceptive campaign ground
He opens the black briefcase in his stooge's hands
And money notes danced shamefully in the air
He whispers something discreetly to the ears of the hireling,
Who no longer cared for the safety of the sheep
Caught in the snare of this scavenging wolves.
He walk out through the holy aisle,
With the ovation high in the densed hall
As they all chorused his praise,
The preacher quickly says the grace,
And the people sit to count and name their blessings one by one.