Bloke's Bladder Sick

Goodly holy I am, upon a hill ma'am,
Piss path a pious parabolic dick pick.
The mob downhill dim wits they think,
I a god, not a bloke's bladder sick.

So you drink a fellow's yellow stink,
And choke on stupid holy-ass hokey hope.
While deep up your arse I shove the gift,
The head of the dead dud duplicitous pope.

You don't know his shape but hairy,
Abrahamic most-lame bearded crusty scrote.
A buddhist fuck, or a hindoo fat schmuck?
In India it's always a democratic vote.

I came, I saw, I pissed in your fucking mouth,
Kowtow now, I am holier, and hornier than thou.
Make sure your asshole is lubed clean,
Going to insert holy in that hole now.

Rejoice? Yes, my fucking arbitrary choice,
You, with your mother and father too!
Yes, up to you, how many heads fit there,
It's your asshole—I don't have a clue.

So toodles and eat all my shit noodles,
And yes, do draw deep inside, my fart down.
Come part those legs you bitch-ass cunt,
Your god is a fictional feces Indian brown.