A humble plea

When the hateful and self righteous are gloating o'er the ones they've slain
I bow my trembling head, fold my hands, and get to prayin'

I pray that their own efforts will bite back, a two-edged knife
That the scuttling of the vermin that they hate will end their life

And when finally they are laid to rest beneath the squirming sod
I smile as I sing praises to the lurking Spider God.