Sunday afternoon at church,
A practice rare and trite.
Young Felix sits between his folks,
His collar starched and tight.
His hair is gelled with Schwarzkopf,
Shoes gleaming black by Dubbin.
God died in nineteen sixty-one,
But, alas, His priests are stubborn.
Shoes gleaming black by Dubbin.
God died in nineteen sixty-one,
But, alas, His priests are stubborn.
Outside, a surly Russian waits,
He's come two hours late.
He shows his window cleaner's badge,
The deacon pulls the gate.
He's come two hours late.
He shows his window cleaner's badge,
The deacon pulls the gate.
“You should have been here at midday,”
Says the deacon to the cleaner.
“No complain to me,” he says,
“Take up with boss, Ms Gina.”
Says the deacon to the cleaner.
“No complain to me,” he says,
“Take up with boss, Ms Gina.”
He turns the tap behind the church,
Fills his bucket to its brim,
Hears the songs of lambs and fields,
Of blood and wine and sin.
Fills his bucket to its brim,
Hears the songs of lambs and fields,
Of blood and wine and sin.
A bored young Felix cracks his spine,
Against the wooden pew.
His mother frowns and clips his ear.
His father kicks his shoe.
Against the wooden pew.
His mother frowns and clips his ear.
His father kicks his shoe.
Now the Russian dips his sponge
Inside the rusty pail.
He climbs his ladder to its peak,
And prays it doesn't fail.
Inside the rusty pail.
He climbs his ladder to its peak,
And prays it doesn't fail.
He sponges down the old stained glass,
Dead center of the gable,
Clears the dust from Christ's bare legs
And bird shit from his navel.
Dead center of the gable,
Clears the dust from Christ's bare legs
And bird shit from his navel.
Felix sees the man at work,
Sees the window getting clearer,
And when the job is good and done,
The world outside seems nearer.
Sees the window getting clearer,
And when the job is good and done,
The world outside seems nearer.
