The Malignant Tendency

The Malignant Tendency

The quasi Catholics arise
And buckle to the fray.
Their weapons: nuances and  lies,
But the strongest: our dismay.
Nightmares they are - open our eyes -
The light drives them away.

Their day is done. Their murky creeds,
Blinded by envy, stumble.
On barren land they sow their seeds
Whose ashy fruit will crumble.
Their only god, their ego, needs
One shove - then watch it tumble.

Like vampires, zombies, ghouls, or such,
In some drab horror film, 
In the Tablet's stale and bitter hutch, 
They haunt the grisly realm
Where slobbering ranks of undead clutch
At the Church they'd overwhelm. 

Frail wraiths, they anger us too much.
We wonder, "Why do they stay?"
To join the humanists, prods, or such,
Would make their dismal day.
I'd like to kick their Kungian cr***h,
But nobly turn away.