Communist paint sniffers
Through my black mirror
The doll-faced little zombies
Sang words of adoration
In drugged, monotone grunts and groans of death.
The pasty brittle faces giving hazy little praises
To the God who permitted debt,
Sickness and pestilence.
But their little is big through my black mirror.
They have no home, no gifts, or hope that I can see
As they stand and sing and smile and freeze.
They have no black mirror, no food or drink
Or clothes, family or time to think.
These tiny little zombies smile
As they pray to a God who seems to take a while!
But He gave them what they have (this Lord of hosts),
Not much but they have more than most.
I look into my black mirror and don’t like these kids I see,
Should I help them be set up? Could God actually use me?
But I need to be distracted
And my mirror has apps for that,
so I click away
I guess I’m the zombie now.