Wolves

There are wolves at the end of my street, they pray for the old and they prey on the weak.

They say they are helping, that they aid those in need,

Yet they benefit from every good deed.

If they are good it's not for goodness sake,

It's for a place beyond their heaven's gate.

People are  preached to and taught  so called truths, 

Stories told by those with over enthusiastic views.

When people go in they are never the same,

You're helped into the pack or left out in the rain.

They treat us with contempt and with suspicion

Because we don't believe in their superstitions.

Their minds are closed to reason and  fact,

For with imagined Gods they've made their pact.

There are wolves at the end of my street, they prey on the old and pray for the weak.