The mangled shepherd surely weeps
Hello. I'm the Very Reverend Zim_ulator, and these are my boys, Piss and Moan Zim_ulator. Since the day I found them as developing fetuses in a Salvation Army bucket circa 1984, we Zim boys have spent the bulk of our lives dedicated to each confounding and destroying the others as opportunities arise. We hate one another. We hate one another so much.
But then, one crisp July afternoon after a court ordered session, the three of us were arm and arm, fighting over our last collective cigarette. As I held Piss' legs down and his brother was placing himself in position to fart on his brothers nose, I was stuck by a revelation. I knew that if we could settle down for a while and act like normal humans, maybe we could get on the welfare this time.
This began the long journey which has brought us to this Christmas, 2014, and some very special thoughts I have for my family. I dedicate this poem to Piss and Moan, and present it as a heartfelt Christmas message that, God willing, might ignite a festive spike of holiday cheer in your own hearts.
The mangled shepherd surely weeps
For gits and homos, as it sleeps
A window barran, a baron cared
By taffys notes of heil and clare.
The weeping gnashes capes of corn
As shinos hurl their slapstick porn
And angels drink the tears of dead
And famous ascetics, with locks of dread
And as the dreadlocks shook and fell
All manner of demon burst from Hell.
Nuns were gasping, air was thin
Such din and smoke, as cackles Him
By Him, I mean old Satan, of course,
That fine purveyor of dangled gorse
He piles the faggots[1] high and wide
Humanity in whole, His bride.
Rictus grin, hammering pulse
Opens creaky minds to else
Than what we dream by daylights watch,
Ere Others come to steal out Scotch.