At the House of the Congo

They'll not blindside me,
brown-housers of discontent
that build brick shit-houses
to themselves - a monument to their lord
god, savior safe in piety
and righteousness and deceit
and conceit who trudge down deep

In knee high muck sing praises
of fuck all hallelujah
and the return to the turn
of a maxim whispered long ago-
Glory, glory, the gloom is gone-
and they shall not rise up
with swords fashioned from plowshares
had a generation ago on the farm-
one generation from river trash
that rolled up fresh on the bank,
something that stank of melancholy
and discord - slithering wild belly
crawl until the strike at the heel
after time has passed & at last
the truth - At last the truth