A golden tide of maple leafs
cascade from the trees,
swept by a November wind.
Branches, stripped bare,
twist and wave, pummeled by a breeze.
Falls eternal desecration, of Summer beauty,
readies the land for Winters coming.
In the name of the Father
and of the Son,
Religion may not be for everyone.
Do you believe in a higher being?
If you do, you must admit
at this moment, would he omit,
the lying racist from this place,
that most call the Human Race?