Blessed Monstrous Deicide

In times of dawn a great God of old,
and universes within him, howling
made mighty shibboleth upon the shiv'ring plains,
whose sons demanded worship and obeisance.
Till three rebelled, and slit his throat
and drowned his sons, and from this deicide
ended tyrants' reign, and built the earth
from his bones and milled flesh.
It is those who do not bow
and render giant gods their carvings,
to make a world
who earn our honor on this daring earth.
Whom we call Gods are God-killers,
counterfeit-dispersers, beneficent
rebels of might and main.
They do not inspire fear within us
-- only within the bad conscience of the wicked --
but awe and blessed daring to defy
any giant power who'd demand our bowing down
where standing tall and fruitful is the lot
of a child of these proud destroyers of ill,
whose sweet lemonade of world
squeezed from monstrous, roaring lemons
we drink everyday walking upon the lush grass.
And like they did, we may raise our fists
to defy any awful power of arrogance,
prophecying, knowing not when, but true :
"You're going down," and resting in that confidence.
Men get to self-name, and self-declare,
as our mighty shapers themselves are free,
and find our good in full freedom.
This the world's shaping-tale tells us truly.