The Prayer of a Realist - G.B.H.

There’s no one up there there never was

Only in vain is there a god

There’s too much suffering for him to be.

An almighty power, a heavenly being

My god, your god, whose god, there is no god?

The fabric of prophet’s ages old

Drones on and gathers mould

Gets a weekly airing from a fool on high

Who talks and talks till his throat’s dry

A fund for a roof with a hole

It’s the money they’ll save not your soul

Persistant begging from men of the cloth

Refuse his offer and see his wrath

The weak ones kneel to him they pray

«Oh saviour come back someday»

Sinning whilst waiting for a sign

I deny him he’s yours not mine