They Make a Picnic Out of Religion

“Wine and whiskey leave my people in a stupor. They ask questions of a dead tree, expect answers from a sturdy walking stick. Drunk on sex, they can’t find their way home. They’ve replaced their God with their genitals. They worship on the tops of mountains, make a picnic out of religion. Under the oaks and elms on the hills they stretch out and take it easy. Before you know it, your daughters are whores and the wives of your sons are sleeping around. But I’m not going after your whoring daughters or the adulterous wives of your sons. It’s the men who pick up the whores that I’m after, the men who worship at the holy whorehouses— a stupid people, ruined by whores! * * *

“They entertain the king with their evil circus, delight the princes with their acrobatic lies. They’re a bunch of overheated adulterers, like an oven that holds its heat From the kneading of the dough to the rising of the bread. On the royal holiday the princes get drunk on wine and the frenzy of the mocking mob. They’re like wood stoves, red-hot with lust. Through the night their passion is banked; in the morning it blazes up, flames hungrily licking. Murderous and volcanic, they incinerate their rulers. Their kings fall one by one, and no one pays any attention to me.