Mammon preacher, Mammon seeker, in your game you
gull the gullible by plying wily guile.
And no matter how many stand up to shame you,
you still babble on in senile, servile style.

It’s your style to bray and then foot-in-mouth fuck up.
Though you are demented, still you’re crafty-smart.
Many schemes have you dreamed up to score gelt.
So you buy air time to ply there
all the corn that you deal, Mammon preacher.
You’re evil, old; your quest for gold just won’t depart.

(It’s your style to prey on acolytes who look up)
It’s your style to pray to troglodytes and suck up;
you have cemented a bargain as their tart.
Both your dreams are soaked with schemes to score gelt;
many piles snared despite lies bared.
Your flock warned; still you steal, Mammon preacher.
You’re evil, old, a pest who gold-trolls each day’s start.

Mammon preacher, Mammon teacher.