Rheims Cernunnos
Gallo-Roman relief, 1st century CE
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
As Sung Every Sunday in Evangelical Churches Across America
Donald Trump
kiss his rump
bend and turn
then he'll hump
Donald Trump
Donald Trump
my god
I'm a faithful Evangelical
Democrats are diabolical
it's so Evangelo-logical
Donald Trump
Donald Trump
kiss his rump
bend and turn
then he'll hump
Donald Trump
Donald Trump
my god
He's my pudgy orange savior
never mind his bad behavior
he's my gospel gladiator
Donald Trump
Donald Trump
kiss his rump
bend and turn
then he'll hump
Donald Trump
Donald Trump
my god
He's my President-for-life
with what's-her-name his wife
there's a lib, grab your knife
Donald Trump
Donald Trump
kiss his rump
bend and turn
then he'll hump
Donald Trump
Donald Trump
my god
He's my Jesus
he's my Trinity
I love him to infinity
Donald Trump
Donald Trump
my god
Donald Trump
kiss his rump
bend and turn
then he'll hump
Donald Trump
Donald Trump
my god
In its theological, intellectual, aesthetic, and liturgical vacuity, Evangelicalism—as its critics have always known—has from the beginning had a Trump-sized hole in its heart. By its shameful deeds, it condemns itself.
Rheims Cernunnos
Gallo-Roman relief, 1st century CE