Ballad of the Scorpion Preacher

They found him in the desert glare,

A prophet with no name,

His eyes were coals, his voice a snare,

He smiled and spoke of flame.

He gathered those the world forgot,

The young, the torn, the lost,

He fed them dreams and gave them rot,

And love that had a cost.

He carved his verses into skin,

And inked the end of days,

He whispered “Helter Skelter” in

A thousand haunted ways.

They danced beneath the moonless sky,

In shadows of his creed,

And when he asked the world to die,

They answered with the deed.

The blood of strangers sealed his fame,

Though none he shed alone,

Still all the weight, and all the blame,

Would anchor him to bone.

They caged him in a silent place,

His songs still echo far—

A man who claimed a holy face

And made a swastika his scar.