‘Close behind thee squats the Fiend.
In his meshes thou art bound.
By his wiles thou art possessed,
all thy hardihood laid waste,
made a stranger to thyself,
drowned in desolation’s gulf.’
You who go to church to stuff
your souls with solemn fustian,
tell me: was that spiced enough?
Or did it seem un-Christian?
You love the organ and the bells;
love to hear a well-rehearsed
sermon full of little thrills,
trills of dogma nicely phrased,
sacred torrents in full spate,
cascades of the speaker’s art.
[ . . . ]
The candles in the holy place,
the vestments and the carapace
of piety, that’s all you ask:
pantomimes to send you home
deafened, surfeited, and dumb,
fitted for the daily task,
glad to put your souls away
in camphor with your Sunday best,
ready for the next day of rest,
unready for the Judgment Day.