THE POET AND THE PRIEST

The priest’s voice echoes in a half empty church
Telling a Story that everybody’s heard
They looked at the floor – They looked for their soul
Some found relief – Some an empty hole
The poet’s pen dances
Trying to make the damn words rhyme
Taming rhinoceros – Putting serpents in a line
So easily distracted – girls in hip-hugging jeans
Make the grown men nervous – Bursting at the seams

The Priest looks to heaven for salvation and peace
Tears in the graveyard – Killing fields of grief
The pipe organ bellows – The brass bells chime
Couldn’t death take a holiday just one time?
The poet takes a whiskey in the corner café
Writing words on a napkin – So much left to say
The ink is flowing like the blood in his veins
Where he likes to put the needle
To relieve him of his pain

The priest starts crying in the middle of the night
Calling out for God – And praying for the light
Who will be his confessor? Will anyone forgive his sins?
Surely not his victims – Maybe the Vatican
And the prostitute smiles as the poet walks by
He stops in his tracks he gives a world-weary sigh
He knows she’s a slave and her smile is just a lie
But he pulls out his money and he walks inside

The police ask the poet the place of his birth
Says same as us all man – Between heaven and earth
They throw him in a cell and say if I were you
I would leave this town whatever you do
So he walks into the church sits down in the pew
When the priest walks by he says I got to talk to you
I’ve lived my life in degradation and shame
I might call myself a poet – But no one even knows even
my name – I can feel myself dying – From the inside out
I’ve got no faith to save me – And I’m full of doubt
I don’t believe in God but I fear hell too
I don’t even know why I’m talking to you

The priest says come on – let me pour you a drink
You’re closer to God man – Much closer than you think
You see I’m the one who’s lost
You see I’m the one who’s damned
I’ve committed grave sins with my holy hands
I’ve followed temptation – I’ve abandoned my call
I didn’t need the devil to hasten my fall
Why don’t you take my robes? Why don’t you give me your rags?
Why don’t you try to be good cause I was born to be bad

Now come Sunday morning the new priest starts to preach
He keeps himself hidden – his face out of reach
He tells them a story of an addict and a drunk
No one could believe how low this one man had sunk
Selling his own blood to buy a bottle of gin
And deserting his children who never even knew him
He was stealing from the rich and doing worse to the poor
The only love he ever knew was in the arms of a whore
And he takes out a syringe and holds it high above his head
He says this is my God – And with God’s will I’m dead
And he plunges the needle deep into his arm
The women screaming in fear
The children crying with alarm

And in the back row the real priest he stands
He Says somebody calls a doctor – give this man a hand
They say who is this bum? Telling us what to do?
Get out of our church! We’ll call the police on you
And the poet’s face is white – As white as his robe
He can feel himself flying – free of life’s heavy load
Takes a last breath – grabs the priest’s hand
Says life is for the living – let your heaven be damned

And under a bridge – the priest shivers in the cold
Saying his prayers exactly as he was told