She is with child. We’re running to the mountains, away from Babylon.

God is a word emptied of all meaning here. Hope a dream too far gone.

God was the word etched on the guns held to our heads.

God was the word uttered by the ones who took us from our beds.


With old army knapsacks and some tools and knives,

we run to the mountains, where maybe a family survives.

She knows the plants and the animals and the sacred waters.

I have a .22,  a few shells, as angels guide holy men in slaughters.


She is with child. The pro-lifers would kill her on sight,

for not being Christian, for being atheist, for not believing right.

We were ground under, all outside those golden doors, left to burn.

God’s indifference in his own corruption, His name we now spurn!


She is with child. Not too long. Make it to the forest, away from people.

Jesus the impaler running people through on every single high steeple.

Me and here, in the woods, Adam and Even after men have become cold.

Christians have taken hope and dreams, and me and here will not grow old.

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