Jimmy and the bad flock

The power drunk preacher denigrates Morrison,
Wearing pink and heartening forty in his flock
Under the town square's trees in the endless summer
Babbling blasphemies toward the lizard king

Babbling as if simultaneously eating cake
Almost accumulating a froth near the mouth
The Iconic pop poet didn't stand still calm and collected
But became extremely anguished tantamount to a maddened gorilla

Had it not been for the zombie lock flock
Blocking Jim from the preacher
Blood would have been spilled
Like a toad being ravaged by a smooth cold blooded creature

The surreal never ending intemperance both parties paid the deposit for
Means rally starts every half hour like a broken record
of a slanderous and violent public calumny somewhere west of heaven
Where outrage replays for the first time in forever