The Incantations of Ishchabibble
There are no monsters, only humans. The only monsters are humans
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For all who will question the great Ishchabibble
Who plays both ends against the middle
with proclamations from this Incantation,
It’s no paradox of puzzles wrapped in a riddle.
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The ecstasy of his rhapsody is to mystify an analogy.
The mastery of his audacity is this pseudo-autobiography.
The veracity of His Majesty is the tragedy of his rapacity.
His animosity for an apology is the only authenticity to honesty.
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He married the fair maiden, Lady Lollapalooza.
His muses are ruses and written all over.
Donated his riches like a generous miser,
For he’s the Grand Perjurer, Lord Fallace I. Shyster.
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He’s occasionally anomalous, and deliriously blasphemous;
that’s often conspicuously anonymous.
He’s cancerous and cantankerous; and especially egregious.
A real son-of-a-bitch seething with devious craftiness.
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But as hilarious as his ingenious is,
to the pompous and fatuitous fastidious,
his generous dulciflious mischievousness,
is utterly and absolutely frivolously fabulous.
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He’ll equivocate a state meant to be great
as the wisest of men contemplate,
the perplexing expressions expressing confessions.
But destined for possession of our most inner obsessions.
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Whatever his endeavor, his metaphors are clever.
So mellifluous and melodious flowing in eloquence,
whispering sweet nothings inspiring awe and reverence.
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With savvy savoir-faire and dashing debonair,
and with the greatest of ease, he floats through the air.
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And he’s quick with his wit; sick, slick, and sadistic
He flows so fluid, you’d think he was liquid.
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Ask him no questions and he’ll tell you no lies,
for the truth, he hides, so only lies suffice.
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And he’s without any merit to the medals on his shelf.
Ask him any question and he’ll babble all about himself.
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And he’s smooth in transition when switching positions
His fiction’s the condition of a coming inquisition,
because what’s about to be taken,
will never again be given.
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So the Beast was given a mouth to utter proud words and blasphemies.
And out of his mouth went a sharp two-edged sword – a taste of his generosity.
And he was given dominion over every tribe, language, and nation.
Within a wailing and gnashing of teeth sounded inculpable lamentations.
No one will buy or sell without his mark, which is the name of the beast.
And his mark is 666; first seen during his parturitions’ carrion feast.
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It’s from the wound of the womb the Beast tore from the whore.
And suckled the umbilical as he gnawed off the cord,
Ate the flesh of her breast and drank all the gore.
Then proclaimed that his words be written into law
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Now with the Book in his hand, the Beast is ready for war.
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And he’ll babel on wiping drool from his lips - with mirth.
Then continue feeding on the blood of the earth
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Behold the white horse, Armageddon’s first sign,
For he will slay all religions to reign for all time.
By his own hand, he’ll proclaim himself King -
Alive for all time by his warmongering.
At first, he’ll speak softly. but carry a big stick…
The Beast comes in peace but with his weapon drawn.
Claiming all must repent; and only then are they forgiven.
But by false messiahs hired by liars to do Shaytahim’s bidding.
And his words shall reign victorious and pave the Kings’ Way.
The Book in his hand has the names of all slain.
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Dark and grim are prevaricating men
The “Wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing” is an ecclesiastical twin.
O poisoned tome of holy hymns,
the prophets cast the first stone but were not without sins.
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Forgone it’s been told; now known best in the Psalms
that plays minstrel to us, devils, as cursed by our wrongs.
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This Gentleman and Scholar is but a rogue, liar, and cheat,
that’ll destroy all opposed laying trampled under feet.
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And we’ll all gladly sell our souls - by the pricking of our thumbs.
The end of days hath cometh - something wicked this way comes.
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D
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