Age Rating: 10 +
We have fashioned a God in our image.
We've conquered and enslaved in his name,
We’ve polluted the land and the oceans,
Because profits the name of the game.
We don't really care about people,
Their hopes, their dreams, or their fears.
The help that the charity's offer
Is mostly just crocodile tears.
They give ten percent and feel righteous,
A sop to humanities call.
Saving one in a thousand from starving,
While saying to hell with them all.
But maybe one day
When the last trump is blown,
And we've all climbed the stairway
To our heavenly home,
And in front of his throne been escorted,
God will just give a sign to those
Standing in line, then the good, from the bad,
Will be sorted.