You in your blackness,
your sombre attire.
That small hint of pureness,
that rings your neck.

Your pockets are filled,
with the pennies of paupers.
Your mind is filled with their sins.

You find it so hard,
to stand in your pulpit,
while longing for the warmth of your bed,
As you preach to the poor fools,
to 'Give, Give, Give'.

Your holy tears fall, on call,
the respectful address is given.
The family of the dead believe you,
even the corpse believes you,
as you smile sweetly,
thinking of your cut,
straight into the most reverend back pocket.

You provide their social life,
but they pay the price on your collection plate.
You reap the wealth,
swimming in bread and wine,
putting your whole body and soul into it.

Bless me Father for I have sinned,
it is ten years since my last confession,
these are my sins:

At one time in my life,
I respected a man of the cloth,
but now I've seen the light.

Your cloth is pure wool, your hand-made suit,
your shoes the finest leather,
and the roasted joint on your best china plate,
is bought with the pennies off the paupers plate.

© Edward ian Armchair 2002