Father, I have sinned, although it doesn’t matter much,

Three Hail Mary’s, I’m at Heaven’s door;

Can the modern churches all be so far out of touch?

Still believing that they scare the poor?

How can Hell be any worse than what they have on earth?

Yet you still demand of them to give?

People who’ve had nothing, from their poor, unwanted birth,

Struggling to find the will to live.

Ask the little girl who sleeps inside a hessian sack,

Sees the Bishop drinking fine red wine;

Questions why her family should be the ones who lack,

Wonders why her brother died at nine.

Citadels, cathedrals, built in God’s almighty name,

Tables sagging under weight of food;

Meekly paid for by the poor who fear the priestly blame,

Skillfully, for centuries imbued.

Vatican? I bet he can! Does guilt invade his prayers?

Doubtful, far too busy counting tithes,

Breed, you poor! Don’t want one more? I’m sorry, no-one cares.

We’re celibate, but we live useful lives…

We can excommunicate you, that would leave you flat,

Paradise is there for your submission;

Don’t believe the headlines, they are yesterday’s old hat,

All those boys gave of their own volition.

Come, confess to me your sins, I wish to hear your crime,

Whisper things you wouldn’t tell a friend;

Then I’ll know we own your soul and will for all of time,

Father, Son and Holy Ghost, amen.