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Devout Irony
I went to church before I went to war,
a speck beneath a mighty steeple,
and prayers devout rang out to keep me safe
from all those savage Muslim people.
The minister swathed in golden cloaks,
in belting voice through God he spoke,
and congregants in joy as one
prayed Jesus guide me and my gun.
And when the service drew to close,
my hand raw from shaking all those
soft and pink palmed Christian hands,
wishing best for me and death to those in other lands.
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