He was a walking ashtray with a top‑hat grin,
Aleister Crowley, high priest of sin.[1]
“Greed is the gospel, lust is the law,”
That’s the rotten little kingdom that he thought he saw. He carved out “magick” with a crooked K,
Sold hell in hardback, called it “the way.”
But every spell he cast, every circle of chalk,
Was a slow, sad shuffle to a Judge he’ll walk. You can sip that poison from a gold‑rimmed cup,
But the tab comes due when the Lamb shows up.
Hollywood signing deals with the devil’s pen,
Trading souls for a few fake clicks again.
On the red‑carpet altar, under studio lights,
They rehearse their lines while they lose their rights.
Crowley’s ghost is laughing, “Do what you feel,”
But the track in your ear is pure dark steel.
Your playlist’s preaching like a Sunday school,
“Bow to your flesh,” while it plays you fool.
Tesla in the driveway, bass in the door,
Demons hiss in the tweeters while you beg for more.
Your kids get discipled by a neon beat,
Not a word of truth in the backseat heat. Sunday morning smiles, “We’re all doing fine,”
But hell’s in the speakers the rest of the time.
You nod to Jesus while you hum along,
To a Crowley‑coded Lucifer song.
Stone‑cold towers with their phallic pride,
Pink‑lit palaces with a demon inside.
Obelisks standing like antennas to the pit,
Broadcasting “more, more, more”—and you’re buying it. Iron Eiffel legs, iron crosses on top,
But they won’t stop judgment when the trumpets pop.
Purple‑and‑scarlet harlots dress the stage,
Auctioning souls at a minimum wage!
Yeah, keep on climbing that thirteen‑step stair,
Zeppelin in your earbuds, devil in the air.
“Stairway to Heaven” but you’re walking alone,
With Crowley’s little whisper in every phone. Greed ain’t good, it’s a guillotine blade,
Stamped on the cash that your idols made.
You think you’re a god with your stocks and your views,
You’re just a puppet in Lucifer’s news.
Hey rock‑star pastor with the Hollywood smile,
Did you marry the altar to the devil’s lifestyle?
Hey Sunday singer with the Crowley chords,
You can’t kiss the serpent and call Him Lord. This ain’t cute sin, this is warzone dirt,
Kids in chains under branded shirts.
“Like, share, follow” to the gates of hell,
While the Shepherd cries, “Drop that spell!”
Hollywood signing deals with the devil’s pen,
Trading souls for a few fake clicks again.
On the red‑carpet altar, under studio lights,
They rehearse their lines while they lose their rights.
Crowley’s ghost is laughing, “Do what you feel,”
But the track in your ear is pure dark steel.
Your playlist’s preaching like a Sunday school,
“Bow to your flesh,” while it plays you fool.
So here’s your choice in the neon rain:
Keep dancing for the beast, or break that chain.
Spit out Crowley, turn down the lies,
Call on Jesus and open your eyes.[6]
Them goats and money mountain god monkeys are spraying our skies way!!
Amen the end so glad amen
IndieJam323
