Litany of the Damned by Jeff Callaway
LITANY OF THE DAMNED
by Jeff Callaway
Texas Outlaw Poet
They sip sin neat in high-rise towers,
burning incense made of unborn powers.
Pentagrams carved in penthouse suites,
where the devil dines on Wall Street meats.
burning incense made of unborn powers.
Pentagrams carved in penthouse suites,
where the devil dines on Wall Street meats.
Blood for spells. Bones for gold.
Abortions bartered. Wombs sold.
Zachary King—he spilled the plot:
the fetus fuels the ritual pot.
He lit the circle. They paid in black.
Said the spell hit harder when the baby fought back.
Coven contracts. Corporate ties.
Sacrifice signed in baby's cries.
And you think this is fiction?
This is faction.
This is high-class hellfire
wrapped in fashion.
Lucifer's lawyers write the news.
They laugh while they tighten the noose.
Media masks the altar’s ash,
feeds the flock their mind-control mash.
Adrenochrome brunch in Bohemian Grove,
while children rot in Epstein’s cove.
They call it elite—
I call it demonic.
Sex magic, death cult,
fully Masonic.
Don’t flinch now—
the truth ain't tame.
They call Baal by a different name.
Moloch lives in the Planned Parenthood sign—
40 million deep, and they say that's fine?
No, that’s blood math.
Witchcraft math.
That’s summoning storms
with the aftermath.
That’s spells cast through surgeon's gloves.
That’s the “choice” that Heaven shoves.
And they don’t need you anymore.
AI’s the new slave.
You’re the ghost in the wage cage
digging your grave.
They got bots for factories, bots for war,
bots to wipe down the grocery floor.
Now you?
You're just clutter. Useless mass.
A bug on the glass
they're itchin' to gas.
You think FEMA camps ain't real estate?
You think the Georgia Guidestones was just debate?
You think "you’ll own nothing" was a meme?
They’ve been scripting this since 1913.
Since Jekyll Island.
Since the Fed.
Since Rockefeller fed the meds.
Since the schools were psy-ops
and the wars were fake,
and they baptized your brain
in a TV lake.
But I ain't afraid.
I'm Christ-blood bound.
I’ll drag these demons underground.
Rosary wrapped like brass knucks tight,
swingin’ Ave Marias
into the night.
Because the real Church ain’t behind some gate—
it’s in the alleys,
on the streets,
in a poet’s fate.
We are the watchmen.
We chant the psalms.
We call fire down
with lifted palms.
Let this be my final curse:
The liars fall. The truth disperse.
Let Babylon break beneath our feet.
Let saints arise.
Let devils retreat.
This is not a poem.
It’s a reckoning bell.
So I spit this fire with scripture and shell,
the outlaw voice that tolls hell’s bell.
I write in blood and speak in spell—
I came to shake the gates of hell.
~ Jeff Callaway
© 2025 Texas Outlaw Press
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