Mind, the age of the wild west and Srila Prabhupada

My dear mind,

Is seems I caught you

Again,

Dripping ethereal blood

On you hand,

A perpetrator of another

Illicit act,

Killer of the soul.

I know you, evil twin.

I know you, festering parasite,

Having associated intimately

With you for countless life times.

You, sir, are a repeated felon,

Like a kleptomaniac,

Or a serial killer,

Always contemplating

The next score,

Secretly stalking

Your next victim.

In vedic times,

The rajarishis

Would have had your life

In exchange for your

Crimes,
Thereby mercifully
Absolving you of your sins,
But this is

The age of Kali.

The powerful rule of the

Ancient royal saints

In now only a distant echo

Of eons past.

This is your good fortune,

Dacoit mind.

In this age of quarrel

The likes of you

Roam freely

In society at large,

Wreaking havoc
With shootouts and lynching

And resultant utter despair

Of the fallen souls.

However, hear me today:

Rejoice while you can,

For there is a new sheriff in town!

Fearlessly strolling

Into the subtle saloon,

That is your sphere,

He acts on the merit

Of transcendental service to the guru

Alone.

Although he may seem

Aged and fragile,

He carries the youthful vigor

Of the spiritual world

With him,

Delivering

Sawed off, double barreled, twelve gauge mercy

And sixteen syllable

Quick draw purity,

Never lost for words.

Henceforth,

I sentence you,

O’ astral outlaw,

To a prolonged period

Of incarceration in devotee flesh

For multiple life times,

With hearing and chanting

As your only bread and water.

Court adjourned.

All rise,

For Srila Prabhupada.