The Portrait of the Atheist Poet

In you I trust phrenology:
You are your ideology.
Your brain right in your chin is lain,
And since you have no chin: what brain?
Your mouth is round in ever pout,
Just like the lips of gaping trout.
The beard that sprouts of absent chin,
To mucus oozing is akin.
Those beady eyes in vacant thought:
Your mind is also filled with snot.
Your voice is yet the worst of scares,
A fart of indigested airs!
The ears of those who hear are stopped
With torment that cannot be topped.
Describe such sounds I shall not try,
Lest in remembrance I should die.