Something in the water

The bells ring boldly
they’ve sold me on
Sunday
what japes
men in capes
giving sermons to the sinners

pot luck, pot roast
I’m as warm as toast
heading off to hell with
a handcart for that old fart
old Nick.

Did you pick your nose?
could have picked a better one
( another joke that creaks)
but not as much as this place reeks
of sulphur, sufferings
and empty promises
of better things.

Giving him a benefit of
any doubts about that
other place
where angels play all day
I sink away and very slowly,
become the fabric from which
new dreams are made

Sunday and one more motorcade
through the crossroads
and fade into our history
until the powers that be decide to
disinter you as if that would change
what happened to you

they’ve sold me on Sunday
but I can blame the bells

what’s your excuse of choice
delivered in a sonorous voice to
an audience of Lincoln lookalikes

If
and if only or only if I pass away
I’ll take my chances with the ones
that play
harps.

© 2017, John Smallshaw.