Afterwards.

Because funerals are terrible.


Bury me in my back garden,
Bum up or bum down, I don't care.
Don't fret for my soul,
Simply dig me a hole,
Roughly one-and-a-half metres square.

Bury me in my back garden,
No casket, no coffin, no frills.
For next to no cost
I will slowly compost
Circumventing funereal bills.

Bury me in my back garden,
As if I was one of your pets.
I take up more room
Than a terrier's tomb
But I'll save you a trip to the vet's.

Bury me in my back garden,
no need for a vicar or priest.
Just make sure I'm dead,
Chuck some dirt on my head,
And then drink to the newly deceased.

Somethin' Stupid

(with apologies to C. Carson Parks)
Because dating is hard.


I looked at your profile
And I swiped right
Because your smile
Was captivating to me.

And when we went
Someplace to meet
You ordered
Something sweet
And then you
Shared it with me.

Then afterwards
I stopped and stared
And secretly prepared
A future for us.

But then you went
And spoiled it all
By saying you could never date
a Taurus.

*

You can see it in my eyes
You're a reprise
Of other guys
I've tried to date before.

And though you think there's still a spark
Your last remark
Means I can't see you
Anymore.

*

I saw you in a bar
And in that moment,
From afar
I felt less sad and alone.

You wandered over
for a chat
And shortly
After that
I had your name in my phone.

For days on end
We'd type and send
A hundred silly messages
Between us.

But then you went
And spoiled it all
By sending me a photo
Of your penis.

*

You can see it in my eyes
You're a reprise
Of other guys
I've tried to date before.

And though you think you're quite risqué
That doesn't make me want to stay
Around for more.

*

I walked past where
You sit each day
Because it’s on the way
Between my desk and the lifts.

And every smile,
Each soft hello
I kept next to my heart as though
You gave them as gifts.

One afternoon
At Friday beers
Your voice bewitched my ears
In conversation.

And then you went
And spoiled it all
By telling me you voted
For One Nation.

On the care and comfort of exotic pets

Just because.

Please don’t keep your axolotl in an empty shampoo bottle
When a proper coffee pot’ll do the trick.

Don’t feed raisins or sultanas to exsanguinous iguanas;
Offer only ripe bananas when they’re sick.

If you must adopt a locust, it’s important you stay focused -
Your indifference might provoke a stream of swears.

Water isn’t good for spiders, they prefer a range of ciders
Served with tiny pulled-pork sliders, cut in squares.

If you take a young impala to a symphony or gala,
Be advised: the sound of Mahler makes them squeal.

If you haven’t any pillow for your banded armadillo,
Then a head-sized sheet of filo is ideal.

If you can’t stop your cicada stealing biscuits from your larder,
Try to make its access harder with a maze.

Never give your tuatara make-up, shoes or a tiara,

You’ll be cleaning up mascara smears for days. 

Regrexit

Because hindsight, at today's exchange rate, is still 20/20

Whoops! I thought that we was voting summink different innit;

I didn’t know we’d really take the EU and, like, bin it.

For sure I thought the ‘Leave’ vote would add up to less than half;

I only voted ‘Leave’ ‘cause my mates dared me for a laugh.

That Nigel bloke said immigrants was stealin’ British jobs;

I didn’t know that Nigel is the king of racist nobs.

He said we’d save some money that could save the NHS;

There’s more to this than what he might’ve said (or not) I guess;

‘Cause now the Pound is down and our financial future’s drab;

But most importantly: CAN I STILL GET A CHEAP KEBAB?

When the campaign is Donne

Because halfway through an election campaign is as good a time as any to get metaphysical. 

When next the visage of the moon

Turns coyly from the Earth to wane

In Southern lands, a mournful tune

Plays soft to endeth this campaign

Two foes, hast did declare their troth

As means to quench a powr’ful thirst

One side intendeth jobs and growth

The other, putting people first.

What trigger’d such a grand event?

A solemn vow to disagree

‘Til twice-dissolved, our parliament

Restored not the ABCC

For fortnights twain a battle fought

Continued twenty-eight days more

We sit upon the rowboat’s thwart

With battens placed for what’s in store.

What promises are made thus far?

What quarter shall our champions give

To childcare, tax, the NBN

And gearing in the negative?

As rivals gloat and bluff and boast

It matters not what happens hence

The policies that matter most

Seem nothing much of consequence

Of marriage just, nor refugees

Spake neither glori’ed bureaucrat;

More time and swathes of journalese

Apportioned to a blessed rat.

Two Thousand and Fifteen

Because 'tis the season to write lists of things.

In December I remember
Everything that’s been;
Listed tersely and diversely,
Here’s my two-zero-fifteen:

Batty’s laurels, budget quarrels
Adelaide alight;
Newman’s booting, Hebdo shooting;
Old Prince Phillip dubbed a knight.

Six-flag pressers, coloured dresses,
Peter Greste freed;
Triggs’ indicters, hepatitis,
Libspill 1 did not succeed.

GP practice fees were cactus;
Baird won one term more;
Data stashing, alpine crashing,
Abbott ate an onion raw.

Young Belle Gibson told some fibs and
Earthquakes rocked Nepal;
ANZAC heroes reached two zeroes;
Bali Nine boys’ final call.

Rising waters, royal daughters,
Depp’s dogs on death row;
Same sex weddings, bad coughs spreading
Goodesy stole the whole damn show.

Joseph Blatter’s FIFA matters,
TEN Australian flags;
Daesh drama, Dalai Lama,
Jenner graced some glossy mags.

Cricket ashes, Greek debt crashes,
Java’s skies turned dark;
Bronnie hopped a helicopter,
Michael Fanning punched a shark.

Tourists slaughtered, murder thwarted,
Cheaters’ names were viewed;
Plane wing mystery, Bishop’s history,
Operation Fortitude.

Pilgrims dying, Vee-dub’s lying,
Libspill two was ON;
ScoMo’s winger dropped a zinger,
Turnbull’s in and Tony’s gone.

Shootings shatter Parramatta,
All Blacks took the Cup;
Doc Brown’s travels, Johns unravels,
Stocco outlaws’ time is up.

Bulldog cruising, bomb blasts bruising
Paris and Beirut;
Russians plummet, climate summit,
Payne wins racing’s biggest loot.

Burning houses, canine trousers,
Star Wars on the screen;
Briggs’s hickie, George Pell’s sickie,
Roll on two-zero-sixteen..

The Twelve Days of Poxmas

Because we have a vaccine now. 

Some parents think holding "pox parties" to deliberately infect other people's kids with chicken pox - a usually mild but very uncomfortable disease with long-term complications - is preferable to having a quick jab. Perhaps they think the vaccine is more dangerous than the disease (it isn't). Perhaps they think it'll all be over in a week or so (it won't). Perhaps they think nobody ever dies from chicken pox (they do). Perhaps they don't think. 

Anyway, Pox Party Parents: this little festive jingle is for you and your poor kids. 

On the first day of Christmas my Mum’s friend gave to me,

A flatlining E-C-G.

On the second day of Christmas my Mum’s friend gave to me,

Sore, crusty eyes

And a flatlining E-C-G.

On the third day of Christmas my Mum’s friend gave to me,

Mouth ulcers

Sore, crusty eyes

And a flatlining E-C-G.

On the fourth day of Christmas my Mum’s friend gave to me,

Permanent scars

Mouth ulcers

Sore, crusty eyes

And a flatlining E-C-G.

On the fifth day of Christmas my Mum’s friend gave to me,

Neur-al-gia

Permanent scars

Mouth ulcers

Sore, crusty eyes

And a flatlining E-C-G.

On the sixth day of Christmas my Mum’s friend gave to me,

Bleeding disorders

Neur-al-gia

Permanent scars

Mouth ulcers

Sore, crusty eyes

And a flatlining E-C-G.

On the seventh day of Christmas my Mum’s friend gave to me,

Weeping pus-filled blisters

Bleeding disorders

Neur-al-gia

Permanent scars

Mouth ulcers

Sore, crusty eyes

And a flatlining E-C-G.

On the eighth day of Christmas my Mum’s friend gave to me,

Febrile convulsions

Weeping pus-filled blisters

Bleeding disorders

Neur-al-gia

Permanent scars

Mouth ulcers

Sore, crusty eyes

And a flatlining E-C-G.

On the ninth day of Christmas my Mum’s friend gave to me,

Nausea and shingles

Febrile convulsions

Weeping pus-filled blisters

Bleeding disorders

Neur-al-gia

Permanent scars

Mouth ulcers

Sore, crusty eyes

And a flatlining E-C-G.

On the tenth day of Christmas my Mum’s friend gave to me,

Encephalitis

Nausea and shingles

Febrile convulsions

Weeping pus-filled blisters

Bleeding disorders

Neur-al-gia

Permanent scars

Mouth ulcers

Sore, crusty eyes

And a flatlining E-C-G.

On the eleventh day of Christmas my Mum’s friend gave to me,

Bloodstained sheets from scratching

Encephalitis

Nausea and shingles

Febrile convulsions

Weeping pus-filled blisters

Bleeding disorders

Neur-al-gia

Permanent scars

Mouth ulcers

Sore, crusty eyes

And a flatlining E-C-G.

On the twelfth day of Christmas my Mum’s friend gave to me,

Viral pneumonia

Bloodstained sheets from scratching

Encephalitis

Nausea and shingles

Febrile convulsions

Weeping pus-filled blisters

Bleeding disorders

Neur-al-gia

Permanent scars

Mouth ulcers

Sore, crusty eyes

And a flatlining E-C-G.

Scat.

Because poos ain’t poos.

Sooner or later, every Facebook discussion turns to shit. Yesterday, my friend Jo, who is a nurse quite familiar with the workings of the bowel, practically dared me to write a pome about the brown stuff. I so seldom get the chance to take up a dare these days, so I thought I would re-invent The Bristol Stool Chart in rhyming ploplets. 

You know. 

For shits and giggles. 

One is separate rock-hard lumps, and very hard to pass.
Two’s a lumpy sausage shape, a strain upon one's arse.
Three is like a chocolate bar, but cracked (not hard or knobby).
Four is smooth and serpentine, an easy-going jobbie.
Five consists of clear-cut blobs that don’t require a push.
Six has fluffy edges, ill-defined and boggy mush.
Seven’s got no shape at all; a watery suspension.
If you’re not doing threes or fours, your tummy needs attention.

Illustration by Jo Thornely (a completely different Jo)

Good government starts today.

Because we need to start a conversation about "good" and "today".

On Monday 9 February, Prime Minister Tony Abbott faced the media after emerging mildly victorious from a spill motion and announced: 

"Good government starts today."

But, like with everything the Prime Minister says, there has been some confusion. Given that, during the six weeks since his claim he's sidelined indigenous Australians, patronised Irish Australians, attempted to destroy the reputation of the Australian Human Rights Commission, brushed off allegations of physical and sexual abuse in our offshore detention centres and eaten a raw onion as if it was a sane thing to do, I think we need a little clarification about what constitutes "good government" and "today".

I asked the Prime Minister to come up with his own explanation in no more than six rhyming quatrains, and he was remarkably obliging: 

Good government starts today. Hooray!

My standards won’t fall beneath

The era of steam or the Pot regime.

(But first let me clean my teeth.)

Good government starts at half-past nine!

I promise I’ll try to be

Much less of an arse to the working class.

(Once I’ve had this cup of tea.)

Good government starts right after lunch!

Our policies shan’t be feared.

I’ll do what I ought with the Moss report.

(As soon as the plates are cleared.)

Good government starts this afternoon!

I’m certainly going to do

A much better job for the native mob.

(Beginning at ten past two.)

Good government starts at dinner time!

I’ll show nothing but remorse

For all of the brawls and the captain’s calls.

(Right after the seventh course.)

Good government starts at beddy-byes!

There’ll be no more pain or sorrow.

That’s a firm guarantee from my team and me:

Good government starts tomorrow.

Lifestyle Choices

Because some choices are more difficult than "which tie will I wear today?"

It's becoming increasingly clear that the only way our Prime Minister Tony Abbott can avoid saying ridiculously ill-informed things is to shut his privileged gob altogether. The latest morsel of mindlessness he dumped on the Australian population he clearly loathes was this: 

"What we can't do is endlessly subsidise lifestyle choices if those lifestyle choices are not conducive to the kind of full participation in Australian society that everyone should have."

What does he mean by "lifestyle choices"? He's not talking about overseas holidays, wearing cycling gear to the office or buying a European town car. He's talking about infrastructure, support and schooling in remote indigenous communities. 

Sure, they're just words. And yes, it costs money to provide basic infrastructure to remote communities. And ok, life would be simpler if everyone just moved to the city and got a job. Whether you happen to think funding aboriginal communities is a waste of money or not, basing your argument on the premise of choice seems idiotic, even for a Prime Minister who has turned Being An Idiot into a form of public art. 

If you choose to have your parents send you off to private school,

And you choose to be born rich and white and straight;

If you choose to manufacture copper wire or fossil fuel,

Then we’ll spend our money on you, ‘cause you’re great.

But

If you choose to live in shelters, outback towns or on Nauru,

Or you choose to come by boat or break a bone;

If you choose to lose your grant and join the unemployment queue,

Then you’re going to have to make it on your own.

Sure

You use vouchers for your groceries and your clothes are second-hand,

And your bruises speak much louder than your voice,

And your lack of reading makes the dole forms hard to understand,

But our hands are tied – you’ve clearly made your choice.

  

Old Wives' Tales

Because scaring the bejesus out of children can be fun.

Jonathon got a strabismus for Christmas;

He pulled a face once and the wind changed its tack.

Eleanor’s Mum’s out of action, in traction

Since Eleanor carelessly stepped on a crack.

Beelzebub’s stolen the soul of young Olaf

‘Cause nobody blessed him right after a sneeze.

Stephanie went out exploring, ignoring

The cold, and returned with a deadly disease.

Libby has square shapes for eyes; no surprise though –

She spent half her days watching kids’ TV shows.

Tom’s nostrils aren’t where he kept ‘em; his septum

Caved in when he wouldn’t stop picking his nose.

Tales such as these may seem flimsy, pure whimsy,

But what if they’re true? Should you just pass them by?

Writing them off as mere fancy is chancy,

So do what you’re told, or you’ll probably die.

Note: I must credit The Digital Cuttlefish once again for this verse form. It's almost impossible to steal something from a cuttlefish. 

Predictions

Because hurt feelings can't stop an epidemic.

Let's have a little look at how science works. 

1. Scientists observe something happening, and form a hypothesis about why. 

2. Scientists test the hypothesis by trying to make the same thing happen under controlled conditions.

3. If the same thing happens again and again and again while testing the hypothesis, scientists can make predictions about it happening in the future. 

4. If the predictions come true, the scientists are happy and the world has a tasty new morsel of knowledge. 

Now, let's apply this to something real, like, say.... a vaccine. 

1. Scientists observe that, when a high enough proportion of a population is vaccinated against measles, the disease virtually disappears from that population. Maybe the measles vaccine helps prevent measles?

2. Scientists test the hypothesis by measuring the incidence of measles in populations with a high percentage of vaccinated people compared to populations with a low percentage of vaccinated people.

3. Again and again, scientists find that, in highly vaccinated populations, measles outbreaks are small and rare, and in populations with low measles vaccination, lots of people get measles. They predict that in the future, when the percentage of vaccinated people drops below a certain amount, measles outbreaks will occur.

4. Late last year, a person infected with measles visited Disneyland in California - an area with a reasonably high proportion of vaccine refusers - and infected other people with measles. Quite soon after that, lots of people got the measles. 

Something else scientists could have predicted: The usual suspects of vaccine denialism began bending all the available information about the Disneyland outbreak to fit their pre-conceived idea that unvaccinated people have nothing to do with outbreaks of disease, and that relating an outbreak of disease to unvaccinated people is UNCOOL and HURTS PEOPLE'S FEELINGS. 

I totally understand that the feelings of people who go to great lengths to deny the effectiveness of vaccines might be hurting. And I totally don't give a rat's arse. If loads and loads and loads of studies have found that measles outbreaks occur more often in unvaccinated populations, and you continue to deny that the current US measles outbreak has anything to do with unvaccinated people, there's not much I can do to help you. If you're cranky because science disagrees with you, tough. If you're out of sorts because diseases don't comply to your special view of the world, too bad. If the well-supported theory of herd immunity gives you a frowny face, cry me a frikkin' river. 

But cheer up a little bit, because I wrote you a pome.

You can’t bring a cat to a dog fight

To watch it get mauled

And then act all appalled

At the dogs disobeying your rules.

You can’t throw a fridge down a staircase

And protest when it breaks

Because gravity makes

No exceptions for self-absorbed fools.

You can’t stick your hand in a blender

Then demand some redress

For the blood-spattered mess

‘Cause you liked how it was at the start.

You can’t help your kids catch the measles

By refusing a vax

In the face of all facts

But deny that you played any part.

When scientists make a prediction

Like the tides of the seas

Or the spread of disease

They’ve seen it again and again.

But your pox-ridden family is special!

And although their afflictions

Comply with predictions

YOU’RE RIGHT, and you’re going to complain.

Back.

Because ow. And not in a James Brown way.

Sciatica’s stuffed up my dance moves;

I can’t do a twirl or the splits.

The pain of the Rhumba

(primarily lumbar)

Is starting to give me the shits.

There’s little love left in my Tango;

My Robot is rusty with risk;

I’m thinking of stopping

My locking and popping

Before I go slipping a disc.

I’m likely to slow down a hoe-down;

My boot-scootin’s way out of line.

I’m mostly forgoing

Large-scale do-si-do-ing

For lack of a flexible spine.

My Nutbush is nearing its limits;

The shake in my tail feather’s shrunk;

My Bird doesn’t fly

And my Sprinkler’s gone dry

And there’s bugger all funk in my trunk.

My verterbrae won’t be found Voguing;

I won’t do a dip or a spin;

No tap-step-ball-change

Will be part of my range

Until this Ibuprofen kicks in.

What not to do.

Because people really do these things. 

I am constantly astounded by the things some people are prepared to do in their search for enhanced wellness. I understand that pain, frustration, desperation and fear of death are pretty solid motivators to try some out-of-the-ordinary treatments, but surely even the strongest emotions can be subdued for the few seconds it takes someone to ask themselves, "Should I really stick this enormous needle in my cock?"

So here's my advice:

Don’t smear flesh-dissolving ointment on your cervix.

Don’t squirt warm, organic coffee up your arse.

Don’t treat pain by drinking widdle.

Don’t tie magnets ‘round your middle.

Don’t let someone bleed your scalp into a glass.

Don’t push someone else’s turd through your intestines.

Don’t stick burning bits of fabric in your ear.

Don’t scull silver for infection.

Don’t inject your own erection.

Don’t drink bleach to make your tumour disappear.

Don’t inflate a small balloon inside your face-hole.

Don’t drink crushed, diluted bees to cure the ‘flu

Don’t use beads to help with teething.

Don’t quit food and drink for breathing

‘Cause they’re really rather stupid things to do.

Don’t seek medical advice by browsing YouTube.

Don’t believe what chefs and wellness gurus say.

Don’t think maybe you should try it

‘Cause a movie star stands by it.

If it seems a little dodgy, run away.

Vessel.

Because the good stuff is inside.

This birth-beaten body is mine.

These walk-weary bones and these stockingbag stones.

This inching, unflinching decline.

These blear-bordered eyes and this puckered disguise.

This creaking contortion of dust.

These pin-pestered nerves and these destitute curves.

This spot-stippled, care-furrowed crust.

These grease-battered clots and these gristle-bound knots.

This birth-beaten body is mine.

This animate archive is me.

Each pain-peppered leaf and each entry of grief,

Each morsel of mental debris,

Each flame-frosted cake and each paper-plate wake,

Each fizzing ignition of bliss,

Each love-lousy ode and each moral bestowed,

Each gamble, each gut punch, each kiss,

Each appetite stirred and each page-guzzled word,

This animate archive is me.

Prayer

Because it never hurts to ask.

Dear universe, excite me
with the secrets that you hold.

Dear humankind, invite me,
as I am, into your fold.

Dear planet Earth, outlive me;
feed the ones I leave behind.

Dear progeny, forgive me
for a future undermined.

Dear ancestors, instruct me;
let my errors be forestalled.

Dear history, induct me;
let my triumphs be recalled.

Dear circumstance, select me
for the fortune you dispense.

Dear fortitude, protect me;
persevere in my defence.

Dear prejudice, unbind me;
let my view be unobscured.

Dear privilege, remind me
of the comfort I’ve secured.

Dear intellect, escort me;
stay forever by my side.

Dear skin and bones, support me
‘til I take my final stride.

Christopher Pyne's Lament

Because the Good Old Days were so nice.

Federal Education Minister Christopher Pyne is upset. Our schools' curricula aren't doing their job. They're not currently teaching Australia's children The Things That Christopher Pyne Likes, which are (as he suggests in this interview) "history, literacy, numeracy, science", "Western civilisation" and "our Judeo-Christian heritage". Something MUST BE DONE.

Leaving aside the extreme wibbly-wobbliness of the not-quite-accurate "Judeo-Christian" claim (see the gaping holes in the term exposed by Tony Taylor here and by Chrys Stevenson here),  Mr Pyne wants to return to the Good Old Days, when children had phonics and times tables whacked into them with a cane, when nobody argued about what Australia Day means, and when multiculturalism was just a fancy way of saying "Look! There's spaghetti in the shops now!".

Maybe I'm not explaining what Christopher Pyne wants very well. Maybe Christopher Pyne needs to explain it himself, in rhyming couplets. Take it away, ChrisPy:

We must learn about Judeo-Christian conquerors and kings!

And Judeo-Christian history! And Judeo-Christian things!

And Judeo-Christian English! And Judeo-Christian science!

And Judeo-Christian punishment for wilful non-compliance!

Non-Judeo-Christian education simply shan’t be had.

It makes fine, upright, Judeo-Christian citizens look bad!

If a lesson fails to make Judeo-Christian people proud,

Then it’s simply (by Judeo-Christian standards) not allowed.

Any subjects that appease the God of Abraham are apt;

But the other, more barbaric ones should probably be scrapped.

Asian neighbours, the Indigenous and other foreign stuff

Are all well and good, but not Judeo-Christian-y enough.

Sure, for forty thousand years there’s been some people here, but look:

Nothing worthwhile really happened ‘til they met with Captain Cook.

Since that day, our nation’s greatness simply cannot be denied.

Our curriculum needs cleaning up, so here’s a simple guide:

If it’s nice and white and clean and mentions ANZAC Day, it’s IN.

If it dares to bad-mouth God or Jesus, CHUCK IT IN THE BIN!

If it’s yellow, brown or – worst of all – a shade of Green, NO WAY.

If it’s Western and it’s civilised and likes the Queen, then YAY!

Soon, Judeo-Christian schoolkids with Judeo-Christian knowledge,

Will bring shiny, Western thoughts to their Judeo-Christian college.

Their Judeo-Christian books will line Judeo-Christian shelves

While they frown upon those less Judeo-Christian than themselves.

Secrets

Because everyone has one.

You can’t tell by looking.

She makes lustrous forests from stones and wire.

He teaches French horn in the afternoons.

She draws cartoons.

He’s raising his daughter’s kids.

She cooks for her neighbour.

He slept in a shed last night.

She hasn’t used today, but she might.

A battery maintains his heart.

It’s months since she enjoyed a meal.

His knees aren’t real.

She lost her baby.

He lost his wife.

Her tattoo hides the tale of a knife.

You can’t tell by looking.

Needle vs Haystack

Because one in a million isn't always good.

You went searching for a schism in the study of autism,

‘Cause you’re certain vaccines cause it, and that needs to be explored.

And for every tract or lecture in support of your conjecture,

You found many more against, which you summarily ignored.

All the scientists conforming to the norm of global warming

Are, in your opinion, wrong, or at the very least misled;

Since an expert crunched some figures, showing human-centric triggers

Are a load of crap, so never mind what other experts said.

You’ve heard claims that every fossil ever found makes a colossal

Case for evolution here on Earth, including humankind.

But you noticed an omission in the record of transition

From bacterium to human, so you’re sure we’ve been designed.

You could search the world all over for a tiny four-leaf clover;

Or a hidden ukulele in a pile of violins;

For a prickle in a thicket, or a lucky golden ticket,

Or a silver needle buried in a haystack full of pins.

You’ll find papers reinforcing the position you’re endorsing,

So hooray for you, you clever sausage! Everybody cheer!

But the confirmation bias of statistical outliers

Doesn’t make the weight of evidence against you disappear.

How to be a Christian

He’s the champion of the poor, the lost, the meek and dispossessed;

He invites all creeds and colours to his parish to be blessed;

He believes in being human, and in peaceable protest;

He loves Jesus, and he calls himself a Christian.

They’re a loving, married couple with a huge and loyal flock;

Spreading news of God through microphones and family-friendly rock;

They already know the getting-into-heaven secret knock;

Praise the Lord! Ch-ching! They call each other Christian.

He attends the sick and needy, if he gets the flights for free;

He tells lies and sells his arse to gain election victory;

He’ll support a wealthy mogul, but turn back a refugee;

He’s not quite a priest, but calls himself a Christian.

He’s ensconced within the Vatican, with wine and jewels and prayer;

He condones the rape of children by the men charged with their care;

He’ll protect the church’s name, but not those families in despair;

He’s a cardinal, and calls himself a Christian.

Now, I’ve read the Holy Bible, but I’m still a bit confused;

About what a “Christian” says and does, and how the word is used;

Which behaviour’s unforgivable, and which can be excused?

By what standards can one call oneself a Christian?

When I look to Christian leaders, their example isn’t plain;

Some are good and meek and giving, some destructive, cruel and vain;

But there is a single common thread, a prevalent refrain:

Someone’s Christian if they call themselves a Christian.