We the fortunate ones
Those who weren't sanitized at once
At least from biblical pandemics
Those anointed theological comics
Black sheep in the day, white wolf at night
We were saved anyway, by grace not might.
It hasn't been any different from what I sought,
That bottle of oil my wife had bought
To save our son we gracefully begot.
Borges was our patrimonial argot
But He asked, "Is that all you've got"
Who then is He?
The man who baptized we.
"He" represents all false prophets,
Who studied the holy pamphlets
And to amass for their own pockets,
Deceive the religious illiterates
To unbind any ties with soul mates
Hence, sanitizing their thinking cups.
Unless you buy my oil,
This child will soon be in the soil.
This is how we lost hope
Our faith in him was so dope
Trusted he could help us cope,
Bishop Corona was only an expired coke
Who had semblance of a good Pope.
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