Bethlehem's church of the punch-up --The Guardian, December 29, 2011
Down tools, you fools, the Brothers cry,
Leave you my church alone!
How dare you white my sepulchre
With your vile holystone?
How dare you cherish what I love
As if it were your own?
Thus each man kills the thing he loves;
His passion seals its doom.
A tract of land, a patch of sand,
A rock, a church, a tomb.
Some do it with an honest bomb
And others with a broom.
If Jesus had the casting vote
Would any of them care?
But he’s long gone, and hasn’t left
Even an echo there
Of how a harlot oiled his feet
And wiped them with her hair.
Ann Drysdale now lives in South Wales, UK and has been a hill farmer, water-gypsy, newspaper columnist and single parent - not necessarily in that order. Her fifth volume of poetry, Quaintness and Other Offences, has recently joined a mixed list of published writing, including memoir, essays and a gonzo guidebook to the City of Newport.
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