Professes or is it confesses?
All your anatomical solutions
are but the stench of your breath.
Both hands found guilty; wandering
misdemeanours in the night.
Your cerebrum has no place
nor does your soul;
not in this life,
What about the next?

~.~

Your sons are your prodigy,
those of a lost kind.
Sneering and snooping
on others misfortune;
liabilities in time,
while their Father professes
to the rape of the mind.

~.~

Does it sit well, my friend?
Your adultery and heresy
both carry you to Hell.
Fare ye well, my friend!
I know my foes;
Professor, a nemesis strong;
blight and irresistible sop
where Lucifer burns bright.

~.~

Does it sit well, Professor?
Your victims bring sighs
and you Professor:
your heart
is full of
pride.