Cathedrals sell as glamorous places,
But this pile you can hardly call a church:
A disused, Sixties prefab. Leaking roof.
The neighbours rail against the smoking ban
While others drown their sorrows from a can.
It once was the domain of aimless youth
And wedding parties left out in the lurch.
Who will now adorn its empty spaces?
The true believers congregate around,
To worship at the feet of new-found gods.
Their offerings are bundles of bent notes,
Gigantic jars of threepennies in bits,
Loud talk in pubs, proclaiming gîtes as gits,
And dustbins full of lies which helped buy votes.
All paid for by those Little England sods:
In for a penny, never for a pound.
Your heroes did, or would have, voted leave:
National treasures, who once dragons slew.
You can’t begrudge them coming here to pray.
Blame the sleazy gang, the fake messiahs,
Flush-faced sons of bile, the bare-faced liars
Who won’t mend rooves or heal your troubled day.
Cheery vicars no longer know what’s true
Or what, through draughty windows, to believe.
