Demons

The mind bold And independent, The purpose free, So we are told, Must not think To have the ascendant. What's a saint? One whose breath Doth the air taint Before his death; A bundle of bones, Which fools adore, Ha! ha! When life is o'er, Which rattle and stink, E'en in the flesh. We cry his pardon! No flesh hath he; Ha! ha! For it hath died, 'Tis crucified Day by day, Afresh, afresh, Ha! ha! That holy clay, Ha! ha! This gains guerdon, So priestlings prate, Ha! ha! Before the Judge, And pleads and atones For spite and grudge, And bigot mood, And envy and hate, And greed of blood.