He speaks not a word of God English his only fluent language halts Being lame, a dialect of no numbers; A people, and no people, only populations

Whose God is a foolish word to spin, a bummer Word, that packs no concrete force No hard content like motorway, or pay-packet Or classy saloon car

Just what his childish heart sees are the real, real, goods In a world’s will circumscribed by its toys of pleasure Holding out as it offers, coaxing on the fray’s achievers That’s why this lottery Friday gives him such an urgent meaning

Ask him who was it made dazzling the fabled earth And he says Linux The Arsenal, and Stella lager beer On Saturday nights amongst Lethean Elysian Fields As an ox set loose to graze

His God is a nothing, knows no meaning, holds no meaning Living his closed down life contains all meaning; meaning Caught and transported, harboured in a cage His corse on hand for use serves all its meaning

Believes he thus in liberties, in seizing wrecked weekends Elsewise he serves his weekday time confined inanely; Tamely Watched, shopped, and clocked-into its lockup; does his stir Supine And kicks no baulks

That God sees his wants, what are his needs, his daily feeds Never himself he sees them; only heeds a bunch Of childish glees which turn the keys on his unreason As Eloihim immanent ever-ranges at-large all-over

You can also find this poem at our steemit blog.