Wednesday, 24 June 2020

Mid Summer's Day 2020

The Eucharist from Ripon, at ten thirty,
Set out to make those watching it, feel shirty,
The ‘right on’ bloke giving the sermon was a Scribe
Or Pharisee, who felt we were not all one tribe,
And wished he lived where he felt more at home
Amongst a group of people who weren’t white.
He blethered on and talked a deal of sh*te,
Until I muted him, 
He’d spoilt the service and the day and made it dirty,
Preaching the antithesis of Christ’s ideas,
Signalling his fashionable virtue, 
Wishing he’d not spent the last few years,
Living peacefully among a hardy, northern flock,
Instead of dwelling with such victims he could teach
To loathe their fellow men, and ne’er forgive,
For he knew preaching was a poor, dull way to live,
Compared to stoking violence and fanning flames,
And causing tension as a way to draw attention 
To himself, because he loved atonement and abasement,
And taking on the sin
That is original, to being born with pale pink skin. 

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