An Atheist in Heaven
Upon my death, should my beliefs attest
To be so wrong,
And should my doubting self yet house a soul –
Which lurks obscure until eternal rest
Proves not so long,
Then rises up when summoned to extol,
And give account of faith, and weigh agenst
A common mark –
Then let it hold no shame and hold no fear.
And should my final form be then dispensed
Unto the dark,
Still my whole life was loving and sincere.
Free-Zoning
We don’t need Miscavige, see,
To run our audits, rig our fates –
We’re moving up the bridge all by ourselves.
We needn’t wait till OT3
To learn of Xenu’s DC-8s,
Now Teegeeack’s escaped your secret shelves.
We’re the methadone to their crack,
The thirteenth sign to their zodiac,
With a finger-wag to psychiatry,
And a less-homophobic piety –
We’re still in the zone, but at least the zone is free.
We’ve shed your cult, we’ve sunk your navy,
Quit your billion-years a slave,
Although we all think LRH is swell.
Yet still the core is true, unbeaten –
Still believe in body thetans,
Just like Quakers still believe in Hell.
With solar-powered e-psych probes,
We’re the white-shirt face to their cult-black robes,
Lightly tutting at SPs,
But never disconnection, please !
We’re an altogether healthier paranoia, with no fees.
Dream On
Sleeping is our right,
It is our patriotic duty –
And ev’ry dream is freedom,
And our freedom is to dream…
Sleep, my fellow patriots,
For sleeping is our beauty –
And dreaming is our industry
In which our twilights gleam.
Seventh Day
And on the Seventh Day the Lord did rest,
With feet-up on a cloud –
And hereafter, in Sunday best,
We imitate his weekly quest
To switch-off from the crowd,
For ev’ry Seventh Day, the Lord makes clear
To leave the fields unploughed.
For on this day the Lord is near –
So don’t have too much fun down here,
Incase we get too loud.
But what do you suppose he does Upstairs
When punched-out from the week ?
When through with listening to prayers
And judging sins and love affairs,
And blessing all the meek,
Kicking-back with a glass of manna, say,
Or visit Zeus the Greek ?
Or maybe give the spheres a play,
Or take a jog round the Milky Way,
Or give his beard a tweak ?
Thus ev’ry Seventh Day, to decompress,
He rests his weary head –
And he commands we acquiesce
To give up any busyness
And copy in his stead.
So we must waste the day with filling pews
And quelling Monday-dread –
Half our weekend in a snooze,
A seventh of our lives we lose,
Because he swings the lead.
Telling the Bees
The day that Grandpa died, that very day,
My father took my hand and led the way
On up the garden, round behind the potting shed,
And showed me how to tell the bees that he was dead:
He gently rapped the back-door key
Against the frame, and spoke the name,
Then wordless handed it to me
That I should do the same.
I guess it worked – this informed hive, now his,
Survived intact, as was, as is –
Though surely, bees think not of grief
When Father was, to them, a honey-thief.
The day that Father died, it fell to me
To take my son and take my key
And pass-on the traditions of the hive –
To tell the bees he was no more alive.
But as I rapped upon their frame,
My puzzled boy a little scared,
I found I could not speak his name
To bees who neither knew nor cared.
And so, I placed a hand upon my lad
And told him how we honour Dad –
It’s not through what the past believes,
But like he taught: by being honey-thieves.
Cocky & Fishy
Candirus – do they ?
No. They don’t.
Firstly they can’t,
And second, they won’t.
They parasite gills –
Not penises, ever.
They’d suffocate up there –
That wouldn’t be clever.
They don’t swim up pee-streams
(Even if laminar),
Cos fluid dynamics
Need far too much stamina.
They haven’t a tool
To wedge your tool wide,
Nor have they the strength
To push-up inside.
So next time you’re spreading
A rumour or two
That deep down you desp’rately
Want to be true,
When pissing on truth
Cos it pleases your gut –
Recall the candirus
And keep your hole shut.
Con Spiracy
Need a good conspiracy
Of shadowy cabals replete with omnipresent spies ?
There’s always the Illuminati,
With their fingers on the pulse and firmly in the pies.
Link them into Davos, sure,
And Hollywood and NASA, and the Barons of the News,
And throw in Templar Knights of yore,
And shake them up with Satan, and then blame it on the Jews.
But why would any self-respecting paranoid
Of all these “scum”
Insist they’re really lizards from across the void ?
Now that’s just dumb !
Why did those Feet…?
I’ve often found it fairly odd,
The way the English always had
To borrow someone else’s god,
And rush to join the latest fad –
From Mother Earth to Father Woden,
Merlin and Sir Galahad,
Until at last, through constant goading,
So we fell for Jesus, bad !
But what was the attraction
In a bunch of desert-nomad tales ?
The sarabands that blew their action
Don’t translate to English gales –
I guess we want to get along –
A thousand martyrs can’t be wrong !
When cult’ral cringe is at its height,
The chariots are burning bright !
So Adam loves his country Garden
(Never naked, always blond),
But once he’s out, why would he harden
In a world so green beyond ?
And Noah’s rain is not a threat
To those who never felt a thirst,
And Moses needn’t raise a sweat
When native plagues of gnats are worse !
And Jesus, what about the lad ?
Politely yet at-length ignored,
Where nobody would call him mad,
Yet nobody would call him Lord.
“He’s far too foreign”, they would say,
“And far too showy – not our way.”
Yet somehow (why, though, isn’t clear)
Jerusalem was builded here.
Exit the Dragon
Once were dragons, so they say,
In ancient times on ancient hills,
In red and gold and green and grey,
And some with teeth, and some with bills.
They say they slept in riverbeds,
Or lived in caves beneath the bats,
And some were spawned with seven heads,
And some would flock as thick as gnats.
Here be dragons, once-a-time,
Their shrieks were oft upon the breeze,
They flew where only geese could climb,
And nested in the tallest trees.
Their breath was hot, their blood was cold,
Their snorts would burst in fiery jets.
They snatched the sheep from out the fold,
And plucked the fish from out the nets.
Here were dragons, hereabouts,
With glossy coats of chequered scales,
And some with whiskers on their snouts,
And some with manes and feathered tails.
Dragons ! Dragons, ev’rywhere !
A horde of wyverns, so it’s said.
But none was safe within its lair
From he who bore the Cross of Red.
Good old George – he fills the aisles
As England’s saviour, brave and true.
We love to hear his quests and trials,
The wily beasts he stalked and slew.
He chased the wyrm from out these Isles –
But how I wish he’d spared a few !
If folks can live with crocodiles,
They could have lived with dragons, too.
I Can See Your House From Here
To appease our vengeful God, there’s this sacrifice
That really is no sacrifice at all,
Of a man who’s really God, and who knows he’s really God,
And who knows he’s coming back, as I recall.
I guess it must have hurt, but he’s pretty damn inert
To the pain, when he knows he’s really God.
So why was there the need for our saviour to bleed
To appease his other Self ? So very odd.
I know why you think that it’s a sacrifice:
It’s all for Original damn Sin.
But Eve disobeyed when her questing was displayed;
She’s a hero – let our sciences begin !
We’d done nothing, it transpired, no apology required –
Just a god wracked with fetishistic pain.
But the Romans can take pride for their Friday deicide,
Thereby lengthening the weekend with their slain.
Rhyming Couplets 