Crypto Christ
He came not clothed in rags or gold but in the blue-light glow of code,
his miracles were spreadsheet hacks, salvation hidden in the nodes.
He spun his gospel on a Discord server, preached rebellion, sold release,
he told the poor to buy the dream, then vanished with the piece.
No chalice raised, no broken bread–just streams of trust that bled for years,
each wallet drained a silent prayer, each token drop the birth of fears.
He named the gospel “Hope Reborn,” then minted faith as NFT,
while underneath the rug he pulled, the faithful knelt in poverty.
He offered grace by private link, a sermon paywalled on demand,
he said the banks would fall like Rome, while tracing wallets with his hand.
The blockchain prophets screamed “divine,” the shills anointed him as king,
but every “HODL” bought a loss, and every promise sold a sting.
He laid his hands on digital lambs, baptized them in the cyber sea,
“Decentralize!” he preached, then laughed, when trust collapsed in piracy.
No temple left but Discord mods, no faith but screenshots in the void,
he lit a pyre of borrowed hope, then torched the poor he had employed.
He baptized fools in vapor coins, the sacrament a code of lies,
his whitepaper was holy writ, his exit wound a thousand cries.
A ledger filled with wasted lives, a prayer recited in the chat,
“Buy the dip,” he wrote, then dipped, his mercy measured in a stat.
He traded poverty for clicks, redemption’s worth a trending thread,
he burned the sacred for a joke, sold mercy while the desperate bled.
His only prophecy fulfilled was lines of code that mined regret,
and when the candles snuffed to black, his worshipers were deep in debt.
Now faith is just a haunted room of memes and “lost it all” confessions,
the altars piled with screenshots, charts, and broken market lessons.
His pulpit’s gone, his name erased from every scam he left behind,
and all that’s left are ghosts in code, abandoned sheep with fractured mind.
The choir sings of cyber saints who learned to beg and learned to steal,
the only grace remaining now is hoping loss will never heal.
No second coming for the poor who staked their futures on a trend–
only cold and empty wallets,
and the message:
Trust will end.