Three Antifa Poems To Get Me Through

O, murder (I mean, omerta) is in play,

off-Broadway. I'd sell you tix

but then I'd have to kill you for kix.

Bring your kids over for a picnic on Sunday,

after Mass, and the transsub-

stantiation still digesting, making its way from

wine to blood, habeus corpus, and you

took no knee before the Lord of "Love," no

Hail Marys after the confessional,

where the old priest gasped like a professional

and you said, wait til I tell you, father,

what we have on you, and he gasped again,

and you never did get forgiven, amen,

for that horse's head on the bloody bed.
.

III.

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