God is Dead Decade

A BRIT
IN
BANGLADESH

And the Word was made Flesh,
But does that really mesh,
With authentic faith and dialogue today?

‘Cause at Eucharistic meal,
Which is no big, bloody, deal,
We smile and our mistakes are washed away.

We gather round the table,
To hear a gospel fable
From Father Bob, the celebrant, divine.

Never kneels, he always stands
But he runs to shake your hands,
Then he sits a lot, perhaps a weakened spine.

The ladies and the girls,
Their ministry unfurls,
A Eucharistic minister’s sensation.

With servers and the cantor,
They have a playful banter,
Then bread and wine, it’s time for celebration.

As the people, we all sing
But the bells, they never ring,
For they took away the Words that made His Flesh…

For a Corpus? That’s too rough,
There’s no need for violent stuff,
That’s as welcomed as a Brit in Bangladesh!