Most kiss the hem
of religion and rhyme at the end.
A bit of St Paul, the funeral poem …
No cold godless philistine
can stop friends cocking legs
to tinkle a bit of dogma and doggerel
over his box, just a little
sprinkle to send them off
to – who knows? – perhaps
a nice after party with Jesus
jumping from a cake:
‘Surprise! Glad you could make it!
Hey, don’t sweat your atheism –
we’re all grownups here!
(Well, apart from the kids …)
Anyway, grab a beer – got a
thousand makes … salad, steaks …
Not too rough hey? …’
We’d all love to taste the bread
of the Little Red Hen.
Just not go through the hassle
of making-believe the stuff.
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