They came from the laundry with buttons for eyes,
preaching from hampers and preaching in lies.
A wool-blend savior, threadbare and grim,
said, “Worship begins with a giggle and a limb.”
They stitched a chapel in the supply closet floor,
with yarn-stained pews and a bloodied sock door.
They baptized the interns in fabric softener screams,
and replaced their prayers with puppet dreams.
Sock Puppet Cult, praise be the thread!
Sing hallelujah with a sock on your head.
They speak in squeaks and holy lint,
and choke out truth with a sacred glint.
The leader’s name is Bishop Toe,
he hisses in cotton, moves real slow.
He says the world was knit, then torn,
and we’re all stains from the day it was born.
I saw Sister Heel eat a nurse alive,
preached from a shoebox in aisle five.
They pass out socks like sacred scrolls,
and chew on doubts with gaping holes.
The janitor’s missing, the priest won’t speak,
they replaced the bibles with laundry chic.
Now they hold mass in the boiler room light,
and praise the Footlord every night.
I tried to resist, I tried to run,
but they found me smiling at the laundry gun.
Now my left hand’s a prophet of doom,
and my right’s planning a wedding in June.