The Proselytizer

A sere old bird came to peck at me
While I station-sat in self-harmony.
In his withered, wobbly, bony crooks
He cradled a cluther of godful books.
I would not budge, I would not bite,
No matter how hard he peddled his light.
"Dire! Dire!" he macawed,
Succinctly limning his Heaven, his Lawd,
And in conjunction, that steamy well,
The Christian cesspit known as Hell.
"Dire, dire," I replied,
For if I should bathe in his pious tide
And commit a grievous error--by taking
A screedlet--I would simply be faking
To hush him, or worse, for this reason alone:
He was ancient, addled, and on his own.