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God Fell Out My Cornflake's Box |
I was bleary eyed and yawning when my eyes broke Tuesday morning and I pushed myself from slumber with a groan then off shuffling to the kitchen scratching foul my groinal itchin' hatching brooded thoughts of widows I had known. I merged into the kitchen (after signalling intention) from the curdling bench took milk (that's all, for godsakes) Then reached fore into the pantry like some Midwest Elmer Gantry with indecent rude desire grabbing cornflakes. I proceeded to the table sitting down (for I was able) and prepared to eat my every-morning ration. yet I hadn't quite foresawn what would astound me soon that morn a sight so rare, my heart it palpitated passion. For I shook the box like christmas stirring cornies wake from listless the tilted pack sent flecks of corn cascading And lo! There! Jesus falling! 'mongst those golden flakes of morning, I would never have believed it, were I told. Yes, look, behold, here's Jesus landing feet first, as he pleases nailed up tight against his cruciform of oak bristled thorns whacked round his head, feet soaked in milk on which he'd bled, he just hung there, this soggy punctured bloke. I asked nicely if he'd freely like to climb down now (discretely) as polite as any member of the butlery. I looked around for small utensils with "un-crucify" potentials, When I eyed this Sheffield common service cutlery! So with the claw end of a fork and a little briny talk I dissuade him off the cross and get him brackish then I nudge him t'ward my ladle as a babe lulled to her cradle, half unconscious, as if stupefied by hashish. Scooping deftly with my spoon, I raise him properly and soon toward my lips he rises, where is there to flee? Rock of ages was he humming as he toward my gob was coming, Come on Jesus, why not hide thyself in me? So that's how Jesus entered how inside my mouth he ventured and for moments sat dissolving on my tongue He tasted quite the strangest flavour this old roughshod riding saviour Oh my uvula, such praise could ne'er be sung. Last, I signed the cross and blessed him and I prayed that I'd digest him to my stomach plunged this messianic wealth. Thus my saviour came inside me And I insist you not deride me For at least, I've served communion to myself. by Eddie McMillan |
Copyright 2002 by Eddie McMillan
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