God, are you avoiding me? Where are you when I need you?
Full of hot air, the wicked are hot on the trail of the poor. Trip them up, tangle them up in their fine-tuned plots.
The wicked are windbags, the swindlers have foul breath.
The wicked snub God, their noses stuck high in the air. Their graffiti are scrawled on the walls: "Catch us if you can!" "God is dead."
They care nothing for what you think; if you get in their way, they blow you off.
They live (they think) a charmed life: "We can't go wrong. This is our lucky year!"