THE STEREOTYPE

They paint you as a monster bold,

A mouth that swallows, fierce and cold.

In earth's deep depths, you find your lair,

With bloodied hands, you make despair.

They paint you with a brush so wide,

Your body torn, your soul defied.

The brush called fear, the painter's tool,

And through that fear, they make you cruel.

On the cross, Christ died in grief,

In suffering, beyond belief.

Though none have seen you in your plight,

All feel your presence in the night.

You're not omniscient, we know it's true,

But not a monster with horns, too.

You only cast your hook, your line,

And humans return, by their design.

You manipulate, the people say,

And I can't help but nod and pray.

But man is guilty, this I see,

Not as innocent as he claims to be.