On a good day
On a good day
The voices of men are a church
Maybe on a bad day too
Confessions slide past lips
Absolved once airborne
Every ear a silent priest
On a good day
The souls of men are a church
A calm and empty hall
Gold bars playing on dust specks
And the pews are just hanging
God’s down at the pub
On a good day
The offerings of men are a church
A proud fragile tithe
Raw organs, innards on tin plates
Bare wooden floor boards
That have known so many knees
On a good day
The hearts of men are a church
An altar of rough wood
Where tears are splintered
The washing hung out to dry
Crow’s-feet squint, looking out for bad day rain
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