I recall it was nigh on ten years ago
When a mighty earthquake laid the old town low,
Even our Goth thick Cathedral fell to pieces-
Why, my wonder in Gods protection never ceases.
Rather than pass the collection plate
The good and faithful would call on AllState,
And lo, the parishioners put in their claim,
But no, AllState said ‘God acting up is to blame.’
Bishop and congregation began to pray-
Sometimes You work in a damn peculiar way-
If the Churches insurance claim gets denied
In times of trouble surely God should provide?
But Gods flock stand as a house divided,
What to do when the cheque is provided?
To replicate the folly they’ve always known?
To roll up their sleeves and roll away the stone?
Yea, for years lawyers and the devout
Have both fought about putting a hand out,
Short tempered preachers continue to rail,
Long winded lawyers find more devilish detail.
All the while the Cathedral sits there,
A tumble-down godforsaken rotten nightmare,
The font is awash in dandelions and nettles,
While factions moan, the ruin groans and settles.
Stray cats wander through the pews, row upon row,
Through broken stained glass a cold wind doth blow,
This habitat for cats gives one pause to think-
Gods house must harbour one Hell of a stink.
Finally, when the filthy lucre is disbursed
The Church Council thinks- (there’s always a first,)
After years of genuflectual prayerful thought
They’ll rebuild- pending a leeengthy builders report.
This rebuild requires more than a dab of mortar,
True, the riven roof does turn rain into holey water,
But when Gods congregation look up on high
It would be nice not to see Your sky. And stay dry.
Behind rusty chain link moulders a pile of rubble;
Is resurrecting it worth all this blessed time and trouble?
It would take a miracle and a fortune to be raised,
Or, God willing, another earthquake so it can be razed.
There’s funds been raised to re-raise the roof
But this lofty rebuild will still prove insurance proof,
Best bring in a wrecking ball and end the debate,
Drain the water, toss in the towel, write off the slate.
This sunny Sunday I struck off on a stroll uptown,
The sodden sight and site only served to bring me down,
Up high in yon rafters rafts of pigeons coo and sit,
Who wishes to be worshipful, knee deep in poo and shit?