Monday, 22 March 2010

Those Who Are Perfect

                                                The priest stands by his altar in his purple cloak,
                                                At the rear of the church the hobo has a smoke
                                                And lounges ‘gainst a portrait of Mary.
                                                A latecomer creeps in like an oversized fairy
                                                Tiptoeing through a foreign land.
                                                And the people just don’t understand,
                                                What they see before their eyes,
                                                They sit listening to the righteous lies
                                                Of the priest who cannot sin.

                                                The small child reads her book in the Lady chapel
                                               The schoolgirl sits disinterested munching her apple
                                               Whilst the priest sings his liturgy in Latin
                                                Dressed like a woman in his robes of violet satin.
                                               The altar boy swings his incense;
                                               But the pious deeds are nonsense
                                               To the blank minded fools who look
                                               At the prophet preaching from his holy book
                                               He’s the priest who cannot sin.        
                                                The lady from No. 26 looks disgusted at her son
                                                Who thinking now just how he could use his gun
                                                To rid the people of that voice from above.
                                                And the gent in the corner sits fiddling with his glove
                                                Looking at the girl opposite, wanting to whistle.
                                                Meanwhile the parson finishes his epistle,
                                                Then starts his sermon about the state of the nation,
                                                 His dreary speech to a bored congregation
                                                Who listen to the priest who cannot sin.

                                                The man in from the pub just over the road
                                                Sits in his pew moaning at the load
                                                Of old rubbish that the priest is saying
                                                Then a twelfth century organ starting playing
                                                Its morbid moaning march of death
                                                The bishop’s message of righteous breath
                                                Is read from the richly robed altar
                                                His voice is clear and does not falter
                                                He’s the priest who cannot sin.

                                               Girls who talk at the back of the church
                                               Peer sarcastically at the priest on his perch
                                               Of golden cloth from eastern lands.
                                              They watch him wet his holy hands
                                              With water that he says is blessed,
                                              And then as he genuflects
                                              They giggle with their boyfriends
                                              Peace to all, the verger sends
                                               He’s the priest who cannot sin

                                              Why do these people go to this place
                                               To hear hypocrisy dressed in lace,
                                               And see drink his wine and call it blood
                                               Do they go because they think it’s good
                                               To be seen there, like going to the Ritz
                                               They’d rather be somewhere else; hypocrites!
                                              Most are there to meet their friends
                                               They’re just religious at week ends
                                               They’re ‘Christians’ who cannot sin.