By Roger Chao

In the land of Terra Firma, where the sun doth brightly shine,
There arose a curious sect, with a doctrine most divine.
No robes of white, nor beads of prayer, nor incense filled the air,
But suits of grey and tongues of gold preached salvation without care.

Their temple was a boardroom, with a table long and grand,
There they gathered, devout disciples, to make their final stand.
“Lo and behold!” cried the high priests, with fervour deep andwide,
“The gospel of endless profit, we shall never set aside!”

For they worshipped Carbonus Rex, the god of oil and coal,
His breath the smoky chimneys, his heart a blackened hole.
“In Carbon we trust,” their motto, inscribed in marble bold,
“The earth is here to serve us, to be mined and bought and sold.”

The prophets, in their hallowed books, spoke of ice caps thawing in vain,
But the faithful of Carbonus Rex, saw only financial gain.
“Climate change is a myth,” they chanted, “a heresy of the weak,
Those who believe in melting poles are lost, madmen who speak.”

They sang their hymns of consumption, with choirs of CEOs,
“We drill and frack, for Carbonus’s love, as the holy profits grow!”
And if the seas did rise, well, they’d build their walls of gold,
To keep the waves from touching the land their money could enfold.

With holy charts and sacred graphs, they cast out every doubt,
“Look here,” they’d say, with righteous zeal, “the numbers bear us out!
The Earth is fine, the Earth is good, we’ve dominion o’er the beast,
So let us dine and drink our fill, at this unending feast.”

The monks of science, in their robes of white, dared to speak their mind,
But the priests of Carbonus Rex declared, “These monks are most unkind!
They seek to strip our freedoms, and to bind us with their fears,
But we shall strive to keep the faith, and we shall plug our ears.”

For reason is a serpent, a tempter in disguise,
Whispering of futures bleak, of oceans where icebergs lie.
But the faithful have their scripture, their quarterly reports,
Which speak of dividends to come, of profits from all ports.

And so they knelt, in reverence deep, before their sacred wells,
Their altars of extraction, where they cast their magic spells.
For in the end, it was not truth, nor fact, nor reasoned plea,
But the sweet hymn of profit that would set their spirits free.

“Fear not the warming earth,” they cried, “nor the cyclones that rage,
For Carbonus Rex shall shield us all, from nature’s fiery stage.
The world may burn, the skies may fall, but our faith shall not wane,
For the dollar is our deity, and endless growth our gain.”

So let the glaciers melt away, and let the forests burn,
For in the house of Carbonus Rex, there’s no need for concern.
They hold their masses daily, with offerings of shares,
And the faithful leave with wallets full, but minds absent of cares.

Thus, the creed of Carbonus Rex goes forth across the land,
A dogma of denial, with a firm and steady hand.
And though the earth may warm, and the seas may rise in pain,
The faithful chant their liturgy: “All hail the holy gain!”