Bright Satanic Mills
My bow is of dull brown wood,
For gold does not spring:
My arrows have less divine good,
And more barbs to sting:
My spear is aimed not at cloud,
But targets more solid:
My chariot’s unburned and proud –
Efficient, if stolid.
Examined, explained, demystified,
There’s no room left for your god of Zion.
With science and reason, his will is defied –
For mine is a chariot of iron.