The Prince of Peace 
Was born in the Midwest.
He came to us suckling
On his mom’s dope-dipped tit.
A rifle in his hand
And a chaw in his lip.
Halo on head
And resistant to sin.

It won’t be long 
‘til he discovers the dark,
Uncovering the worms and the bugs
That live underside
The rocks and deadwood
That he kicks with his Nikes
Through the woods where
He will be stapled on high.

A warm mix of blood and sun
Will drench his back,
And he will cough up blood
Onto the lilacs that his mom loved
And wear a crown made of cotton
Colored in red.
He won’t wait to be judged,
But will be Judge instead.