Old News

I wrote this after a friend told me how unfair she thought it was that when people spoke about the church that they just dismissed all the old people that went, as if they didn’t count, as if they didn’t have souls too. I happen to have a large soft spot for allot of the regulars I see tootling off everyday. They’re some of the sparkiest people I’ve met and they deserve a little credit.

Those pews are all empty,
And draughty and creaky,
There’s only old folk,
Is that Latin they’re speaking?
You wouldn’t make nowt,
On a ticket towt to church,
It’s just an old bird box for biddy to perch,

It’s not a grinding,
Mobile minding,
Hive of youngsters now,
That’s not the sort of atmosphere,
A Bishop would allow,

Busy praying,
Busy greying,
Busy in the manger laying,
And lets all ignore what they are saying,
Because no one goes to church,
Only the old,
And with age comes stupidity,
As we’re often told,

But while we malign,
The blue rinse brigade,
Their precious wee pensions,
Prop up Christian aid,

They’re incensed with incense,
To quit common sense,
And drop that 45 pence,
That they can’t afford,
On to the collection plate,
While we’re all bored,
Thinking what’s the harm,
And sleeping on our arms,
Dreaming of frappuccino nights,
And getting into fights,
About just how right we are,

Because we boast,
That those old people are just ghosts,
With shackles of belief around their throats,
Crooning choral notes,

And how we laugh,
Because to death they are close,
And frightened,
And we are so enlightened,

We don’t owe faith to anyone,
God? There isn’t one!
And on Sunday morning,
Nothing must be done,

But while malign,
The blue rinse brigade,
They’re precious wee pensions,
Prop up Christian aid,
And that as your grandmother,
And that was her life,
And it’s not just the young,
And the Godless who strive.


About Gwen and Elinor

Two bloging buddies who love tea and biscuits.
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