from Take Me To Church
Were Nicholas to reappear
with hoary locks, all quite austere,
contoured by strobe upon some stage
(he glances at his hand, a page;
remarks to self, "how unforeseen!"
he bats away the smoke-machine)
dispatched to gather, on the Creed
report of orthodoxy, reed
to plumb, his question still might place,
"WHAT DID THE HAND SAY TO THE FACE?"
Not that we cannot disagree
upon our sacred morning-tea
(although said wafer oftenmost
imparteth naught but adipose),
discourse upon the motor-cars,
Helvetica and coffee-bars,
but hist the crocal notes of spring
when saints shall wend to Burger King.
In broken voice, The Medic calls,
he is The Door to Heaven's walls;
now see them run, fast as they can:
most to the fold, "The Hired Man;"
the reapers grieve the harvest-show
(most of it now is GMO.)
But if we hearken to the saint
(who well by now is feeling faint)
then hear him mutter (sometimes wail)
"THE GATES OF HELL SHALL NOT PREVAIL!"