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 on the to 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 opens with a riddle that mocks piety and performance, asking what poetry belongs to a “pious little twat” safe in his house and never crucified by three nails, then turns to the third who walks beside a narcissist, the Gospels misquoted, Marxist leanings questioned, capitalism flexed with a black fist, Punjabi sword‑dancing imagined in Penzance, and the music‑man from Pakistan insisting he isn’t droned, spiralling into Dronacharya, Acharya, and the comic chant of “Ooolo Ka Patha,” before sliding into finery, winery, Slimer from Ghostbusters, radio, new wave, and the subtle things that God does not know — a whole riddle‑engine powered by cultural misreading, identity under pressure, and spiritual exhaustion, all wrapped in your signature mix of irreverence, myth, and sonic play.