General Purpose Blasphemous Doggerel 1989
All Gods are Bastards.
And all of their Prophets are Shits.
Every Man-Jack’s a necrophiliac
Infested with maggots and nits.
Gods Love to Destroy and wreak Vengeance,
Dealing Pain with a flick of a wrist,
And what is more, every Son of a Whore
Doesn’t even Exist.
We invent and then fear these shadows
Like children afraid in the dark.
But we roast any wight who turns on the light
Or even who shows us a spark.
We cower in terror of Nothing,
And nothing we get for our Pains.
For the Heaven that we crave is a box in a grave.
Nothing where Nothingness reigns.
The silence of Death is no stranger.
We hear it each night in our bed,
And remember our Birth and the first smell of earth
When we wake up well slept and well fed.
It is then that we truly fear nothing
And Nothing fears us, by degrees.
But the day comes and then the cruel world again
Drives us down on to our knees.
It seems Death is fine (for a visit)
But we’d give it a miss – given the chance.
Because under the loam, the retirement home
‘Dunlivin’ is booked in advance.
While we frantically plan for our post-life:
‘All those things that we never could share.’
We all know that our fate is not God’s Estate
But a stain in a graveyard somewhere.
Our powerlessness in this contract
Festers Ultimate Grievance , with age.
So we yearn for a Being – Allmighty, All-Seeing.
ENTER: ‘God’ – (PUFF OF SMOKE) – Centre stage.
And show after show he screeches
One line from the Stalls to the flies:
‘Just you tell Man his life’s a short span.
And to put bums on pews – or he dies !’
Grant us only the temperate frenzy
To say what we feel with each breath.
We ask little more, no eternal encore:
One full life scares the Hell out of Death.