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Ode to Team Pyro

There live three men, three vanguards of truth
Plus one, so quiet for he is a sleuth
Who battle as knights of the internet highway
Who wipe down their swords saying “I did it Thy way”

In many a skirmish these heroes did flog
a great many devils with well-worded blogs
that honor the Word, the truth that sets free
Hush they heretics with strokes of their keys

Johnson, the chief, that pesky ol’ thorn
Is keen on the graphics; like Spurgeon he warns
Men on the downgrade, and all who would hike
Warren, Falk, liberals and pomos alike

Turk, the hellraiser, he smashes all fetters
That bind up poor souls; with his open letters
He questions and pleads with powerful zest
For when one is wrong the Gadfly won’t rest

Phillips, expositor, Proverbs he knows
Detailed, exacting, he urges we grow
in grace. Misread not the Biblical texts
For he will rebuke and then proclaim NEXT!

Mighty these men, in word and in deed
Shielding us from heretical screeds
And pompous decrees that clearly do breach
All that we know the Scriptures to teach

Voices are many, “teachings” abound
Sea billows roll and toss us around
But thanks be to God for these faithful scribes
Who champion truth and point us to Christ!

Read the Pyromaniacs and be blessed.

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2am

2am
guitar strings, smoke rings
scribbles, stains
a notebook filled

with mayhem
black ink; i think
therefore i am
ghosts demand me

to fail them
in silence, no sirens
guitar sounds flutter
out the window

2am
without song. all along
a tune, swirling
unreachable

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Sell Out

when you sell your soul
is it like sleeping
with bathsheba’s spirit?
you fornicate, weeping
with unbridled joy
at your fortune turn
gorgeous woman
she’ll make you learn
and drag you down roads
of greater excess
black broken alleys;
more women, more mess
til one day you wake
all wrinkled and sinking
heavy ‘round the waist
and spaced in your thinking
for there they all lie
torn, naked, and poor
sick with their feasting
yet still wanting more
of you and your years
the last days of spring,
the last daze of summer.
fall, winter, they bring
cold snow to your doorstep
a dark creeping frost
it’s then that you realize
how great is the cost;
you sold your soul
for flesh, adulation
the train is now gone
you’re stuck at the station
left far behind
30 years ahead
stubble, fat, baldness
dreams still in your head
when you sell your soul
is it just like dreaming
wide awake? If so
pinch hard and start screaming

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