Pulpit Pleas

The Eternal state lies in the woods;
The forest for the trees.
But outer darkness waits for those;
Who do just as they please.

No, they don’t care who it might hurt;
They don’t feel any pain.
Their pines and cedars turned to pulp.
They flush them down the drain.

But still they can’t relieve themselves;
They’re always full of dung.
They like to play around with it;
Some constipated fun.

Now when they die their dung dies too!
They’re all mixed up; they buried you.
Grab a shovel!