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“Hypocrite,” snarled the demon to the angel,
Whose blood was his blood and your blood and mine.

“Hypocrite,” whispered the fly unto the swatter,
Which smote him as the wielder swirled a spoonful of honey in her coffee.

“Hypocrite,” murmured the heart to its master,
Who scoffed at love and shuddered in its absence.

“Hypocrite,” hissed the fresh produce to its casual consumer,
Whose goods were harvested by the needy and fed to the greedy.

“Hypocrite,” cried the silence to the turned cheek,
Which would have dimpled in delight had a favor been desired.

"Hypocrite," accused the rasping villain to his righteous punishment,
Whose sweet, peaceful ideals lusted for his pitiless suffering.

“Hypocrite,” moaned the bitter soul to his renunciation of the world,
Which clothed and fed him, and lulled him into warm, defenseless slumber.