Book of Psalms 9:13-14 (Redacted Translation)

Be gracious unto me,

lordy! lordy! lordy,

O dear kindly lordly Lord.

Pity me, O great and wondrous Thee … 

and to Thy scabbard hold

Thy terribly swift sword!

See what I suffer to my very bones

from those who hate me,

those so thin obsequious crones

(and even when so not from hate,

surely then they sore berate me)?

Preserve me from my catalog of manic ills

and from awful accidents like milk that spills—

and hazardously ineffective pharmaceuticals.

Do let me flatter Thee

up a proverbial tree—

and that prostrately,

wretchedly, and abjectly!

You are the One who lifts

me up from gulfs of death

(and that without Your slightest

losing of Your Holy Breath)

so that I may recount

all your glorious praises

using ultra-Holy, chiefly rank

jejune Noachian phrases …

and, in the mouths of daughter Zion

and/or dear son Ryan,

so I may rejoice in your deliverance

(indeed, e’en when it

so obsessively amounts to

an unwelcome and un-Godly interference).