cut to a priest
sitting in a truth booth
wiggling in a wet patch
scritchin’ and a-scratchin’
at a blessed box of matches
ready to inflame
the same damned candle
the fat and waxy handle
on his spiritual fruit machine
four Hail Marys and a pay out
eternal bliss and a way out
a kiss on the hand
may be quite continental
but the pope’s not sentimental
not like that
surprisingly hard despite the hat
his cardinal sin?
finding the time to fit it all in

but what’s with the god awful shout?
abruptly heeling & wheeling about
clean heels on hard stones
rich robes running
the congregation concentrating
being, becoming
drumming
humming along with the mains