I sing of alms and the man
In the charcoal suit
At Matins (1662) somewhere
On the eastern side of England,
The Low Church side –
Just as he is without one plea
But extracting money from you and me.
The black and white vicar in his scarf and hood,
Prophesies it would be good
If I gave my life to Jesus.
But I did that long ago to Sanctus bells
Among colours, lights and mystery
And the erotic glance of Mozart
We are, said the black and white vicar,
To adjure such things as
Idolatry, the very marks of the beast.
He and his churchwarden
And his charcoal congregation
Do not require Transubstantiation.
They celebrate their own most holy sacrament
Every Sunday at precisely 11.58 –
The solemn elevation of the collecting plate.