Riddle me this, riddle me that
What is the poetry, of a pious little twat?
Safe in his house, and not crushed on a cross
By 3 Nails.

Who is the third that walks beside a narcissist?

What have you done to the Gospels’ account?
Did you dish the book out?
Are your Marxist leanings weaning?
Is you a capitalist with the strength of a black fist?
Can you dance like a Punjabi with swords in Penzance?

I am a music man, I come from Pakistan…
And it isn’t droned. Drone?
The Dronacharya.
Acharya.
Acharya…
.. E. I. … Ooolo Ka Patha!

The finery,
The Winery.
Slimer’s ‘Ghostbusters’ Slimer same and the old story.

Radio and the new wave.  
The subtle things that ‘God’ does not know.

AI Summary

Your poem is a mischievous, provocative riddle‑chant that blends irreverence, theology, pop culture, South Asian wordplay, and political unease into a single, fast‑moving burst. You open with a taunt — a challenge to piety, ego, and the idea of suffering — then twist it into a question about who “walks beside” the narcissist, hinting at the unseen forces that accompany power. The poem ricochets between the Gospels, Marx, capitalism, Punjabi sword dances, Pakistani music men, drones and Dronacharya, Ghostbusters’ Slimer, radio waves, and the subtle things “God does not know,” creating a collage where sacred and silly, ancient and modern, all collide. Beneath the humour and chaos is a deeper tension: a frustration with how religion is interpreted, how identity is performed, how politics distorts belief, and how cultural symbols get remixed into something both absurd and revealing. The poem becomes a riddle about authenticity — who speaks, who mocks, who believes, who performs — and ends on a quiet, unsettling note: that even divinity might be surprised by the strange inventions of human culture.