Des' Calvinist Love-In

Mad Poet's Society

Presbyterians are Jews in disguise,
They drink wine like it's hotter.
In this merriment they go into drunken cries.
They they take it out on babies,
And dunk them in the water

Take that you wretched sinner
Is what they usually say.
You are condemned in Adam
An into this bucket of ice water
You're dunked in this day.

The infant cries chattering it's gums,
Baptists tend to think
These disguised Jews
Are nothing more
Than drunken gums.

I hope you don't take these rhymes personally. I mean them in jest only.

I just saw this. rotfl lmao

Presyby's can say what they want
About our friend, SovereignGrace
He may deny children the sacred font
But his poetry is makes me laugh
I rest my case

More like Mad Cow disease.

Des has many secrets
Gold and jewels aplety
Lay in his cavernous vault
Twixt Aryan virgins many

He shuts Romans with a heavy thud
Reaches for the Torah
A book of old
That speaks of fire in Gommorah

Knox he may revere
Spurgeon he reviews
Trust not his whitest Euro features
Des has a secret
A religious Presby all the year
Yet he's an ethnic Jew

Oh this is all in good fun! I called you a Satan worshiper in another thread after all

Personally, I'm throwing some beats into it while I read. Reformed Rap.

You realize that for most undergrad courses, this would probably all be considered A-level poetry?

Lacrae started it and everything went downhill from there.

The Presbyterians of old,
Wanted to be in society big.
They wanted to be bold,
Instead of hat to the back,
It was their wig.

But doing this was not aright,
They really wanted to be hip.
The wig to the back,
Caused them to lose their sight,
And over that rug did they trip.

WORD!!!

Pagan feasts have shut their doors
Scenes of Roman debauchery
Are now in clubs and on dance floors
Not in the sacred imagery

Dionysus cracked his pots
Odin's halls are quiet
The brace themselves for coming days
When the Lord's men will come to riot

The force the gods afear
Gather a fortnight for a potluck
The Baptists fatten themselves
Awaiting Ragnarok

The Heretics

I want wine, wine I say
Was the words of the aged divine.
I need it to live today
That sweet fruit of the vine.

No one gave it to that sot
He did not know how to quit.
Stop drinking an option was not
In his drunkenness he would have a fit.

He staggered around looking for booze
He was not gonna stop
He had nothing to lose
He'd even drink water from a mop.

But he died never tasting liquor again
No matter the cries, begs or pleas.
He knew drinking liquor was not a sin
He died from an attack of fleas.

So he died in honor and dignity
Knowing tasting liquor was the right thing to do.
But he did baptise an infant in pity
And died with on his hands it's poo.

They wrote the confession of 1644
Not knowing what an impact
It would have centuries later
When Baptists suffering from insomnia,
They reading a few lines and then comes the snore.

Heretics need burned,
Butter needs to be churned.
Jerks by women need spurned,
Money needs to be earned.

The first line above are the Presbyterians
The next line the Amish.
The following line are single Presbyterians,
Those drunken bums.

To the tune of ' O Christmas tree' my dedication to Presbyterians.....

Those drunken bums,
Those drunken bums.
They will not work because
They broke their thumb.

Those drunken bums,
Those broken bums.
They will not learn,
Although they're not dumb

Those drunken bums,
Those drunken bums.
They will not stop drinking..

You drunken bums...

Now go baptize a baby..After you sober up you drunken bums..


WORD!!!

How can a baptist
Sling such lines at will?
Is it his magic water?
Is there a special pill?

Do they have relics in their attic?
Vials from the Jordan?
What have they to look back to
When no children have been poured on?

Is it an ancient song
From a blessed hymnal?
Or perhaps a casserole
Which has a taste abysmal

It really is miraculous
He could write for the greatest thespian
When his Pastor is Dispy
And his Deacon is Arminian

I spoke to John Calvin one day
After a journey arduous

He had a look of dismay
Uncomfortable and pondrous

I clasped him on the back and handed him an ale
He scowled and told me a most bitter tale

Given a vision most foul
Of people who would his work revere

They gathered from different churches
To have a fatty meal

No wine was served
No Psalms were sung
Children were kept out

To that thought the brave Genevan
Commenced the longest pout

I topped off his drink
To cure him of his drought

I whispered a truth into his ear
He became as tranquil as a Trappist

When he learned the gathering he saw
Was not Presby, but Baptist

When I said Calvin was a murderer
You'd thought I said the Christ
Was nothing but a goatherder

He had sought Servetus' death
He ran throughout Geneva
Like a mad-man on meth.

In the end the psycho won out
And Servetus' eyes were filled with a mist
Twas because of a mad man's pout
He was burned to a crisp

WORD!!!


FYI, personally, I think Jean Chauvin was not guilty of all he has been accused of

Give me a stout
Was the Presbyterian's cry
I can hold my liquor
Forget the glaze in my eyes.

Give me a beer the old divine did say,
I can preach better
I can hold my congregants' attention
Better in this way.

His sermon was powerful that day
The congregants falling around him like they
Had just been hit by death
But it wasn't that death hit them in this melee
Only because they caught a whiff of his breath.

When I struggle to find sleep
I go to the local Presbyterian Church
To find sweet relief.

Those momotonal sermons are articulately spoken
Like a man on a chicken wing choken.
Oh sweet relief like the voice of Obama
The Presbyterian's sermon just cured my insomnia.

WORD!!!

If a tree deep in the forest falls to the ground, will a Presbyterian drink an ale & baptise a baby?

Those drunken bums.