They used to flock here
Of a Sunday
For worship and prayer
Lost in a world
Of private contemplation
Now they come
For that first Sunday pint
Praying for an end
To splitting headaches
And that endless ennui
The wafer and chalice,
God's own flesh and blood
Have given way
To Bacardi breezers
And two for one burger deals
No need for a collection plate
To pay the poor priest's bills
The greedy owners rub their hands
As cash flows into the tills
A couple of miles away
Young couples arrive
For a peek around
St Michael's showroom flats
The baptismal font
Of property awaits
If they stump up the cash
And take a leap of faith
Mortgage advisers
Wait in the wings
With chequebooks open
Ready to earn their corn
For this is modern Britain
Born of Thatcher's greed
And moneylenders in the temple
No longer brings scorn
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