He wove his hands Between his words Licking his lips as The pot he stirred Bubbled with various Half formed phrases, A dash of fear, Some biblical craziness. "Someone," he declared As he wiped his mouth, "Has a pain in their side, Or has lost their house!" The faces in the Mission smiled: This man so full of Godly fire Claimed to be an Angel Child. He had a direct line, he said, To salvation, and all his aces Ran wild and he ravaged The nation. He drew them in by their Pain and suffering, Made a play for their pensions And disability checks, Whilst muttering About The Lord's Special dispensations, Sold bottles of phony Blessed water That he said cured ills, Some useless tincture of silver To take with their pills. Crocheted cushions With 'mystical powers', Heck he even sold grandma's Graveside flowers. People need some hope They want to believe the lie That something better happens When they shuffle off and die. Everyone wants that pure Speculation that help is coming And that the evil need fear Damnation. There is no help, Nor Armageddon No savior on a white horse Knocking on our door To be let in. There is no sense Nor explanation For why some men suffer While others live at a higher Elevation. All there is, besides this Mundanity, are a few old Stories of celestial tragedy. A hint that perhaps a Long time ago Some aliens came in and Sowed Math, the plough And the Bow. I bet they are sorry now As they watch this mess, Snake oil salesmen, Pecking the fledglings In the nest, Various dictators Killing needlessly A failure to see me as you And you as me. The faith healer sidled up To the nearest mark Asked her if anyone She knew was Sick, or cried in the dark. Passed the old woman a Can of soda, asked her About her back and her Nephew in Minnesota. He took her last cent And lost his soul. I guess we don't have To believe in order To score an own goal.