Hung on a Tree

I’m the clause that stole Christmas
“On whom his favor rests”
Forget peace on earth while its men beat their chests

Peace would not come to them because they resist
They’re counting their enemies; making their list
They want all the plunder the nations are hoarding
But they live in the basement and can’t pay their boarding

They will not seek wisdom
But drown in their pleasures
Their shame is their glory
Their vomit; their treasures

They love to chase fantasies all over town
The way they chase women is world renowned

But what are they catching?
And will they be pleased?
To find that their genitals now are diseased