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Part I.    
The organized church, whether Catholic or not, 
Probably kills more people's faith than Satan.
Its grand pomp and circumstance all 'tommy rot, '
And designed solely to up ‘the gate' brought in.

The first church of our Lord was mostly a home, 
Though seaside or even a hill could make do, 
Thoughts spell-binding like words of a poem, 	
The place unaffected when God's word was thru.


Part II.    
In East Africa, through no planning of mine, 
I chanced to visit, ‘broke bread' at a mission, 
Black parishioners served us curry and wine, 
And the mood friendly, without inhibition.

Swahili was the only language we spoke, 
For the monks living there came from Italy, 
When their servants had gone, one offered a joke, 
That once spoke, changed our brotherhood fatally.

‘So your Peace Corps came here to help monkeys too? '
His joke referred to his own serving bushmen, 
The meal really over we bid them adieu, 
But we would never, ever stop there again.


Part III.    
A close friend of mine that was raised Catholic, 
Was traumatized both by church and by Lassie, 
A cute TV show that was maudlin and slick, 
Dog and family made rural life classy.

My friend was eleven when Lassie had pups, 
And a contest announced, ‘Name them and claim them! '
Many times she entered, thinking of backups, 
She consulted her parish priest on a whim.

The priest's words convinced her belief would suffice, 
So she announced to her friends that she'd won one, 
But no puppy meant that she paid quite a price, 
The false words of the priest could not be undone.

Now by man's hand, God and child were made foolish, 
But for this small girl it was just God's deceit, 
All human claims to know God simply ghoulish, 
And for her stolen soul she bares no receipt.
			
Many years later, the girl's wound still festers, 
For want of a puppy, her Savior's not real, 
And people of faith just look like court jesters, 
She longs for a heart but has nothing to steal.
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