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Your prophets smoke weed
Then covet men’s treasured field
They, travesty of righteous men
Multiply looters in righteous mien
You traverse lands and seas
To pray that others might see
Your deafening vespers
Nothing but satanic whispers
Have I not made you rich
Why celebrate in the breach?
Now your holy water is finished
But you are still famished
Guns, bombs, hunger, pain and trouble
Your hypocrisy has given you double
Written by: Jonathan Ezeanochie
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson
