They tried to sell me some bizarre invention;
Ingredients: faith, hope, and lots of hate,
Atrocities and crimes too vile to mention.
(The tin, I saw, was past its sell-by date.)
They told me it would stop me being bad,
And make me virtuous as Torquemada,
But when I asked what evidence they had
Apart from faith - niente, nothing, nada.
To me, there’s nothing dafter than religion,
Especially when its followers insist
God made from scratch the vulture and the pigeon,
The tse-tse fly, the wasp - you get the gist?
Why would he plant the signs of evolution
In deep Cretaceous strata, fossil-boned?
What purpose could be served by such pollution
Unless he was demented, pissed, or stoned?
Creation myths, quite rightly, are derided;
They claim that, out of nothing, God had wrought
A man, then swiped a rib, left him lop-sided,
To make a woman as an afterthought.
Creationism’s daftness leaves me cold,
And intellectually, there’s nothing chillier.
The world is just a few millennia old?
Please pull the other one, it may be sillier.
Though some may find this recipe nutritious,
I’d rather eat a spoonful or a smidgeon
Of salmonella, frankly more delicious
And far less deadly than that plague, religion.