For Everything Else There's...

The Churches are empty this Sunday
The malls, conversely, are full.
We can't suggest that religion is dying.
When we answer the call of the storecard.
Pews replaced with queues.
The altar is now a till.
The hymns are the hits,
The choirs we clamour to buy.
Look at the happy faces: dead-eyed serenity.
The beat has changed but the march is the same.
And we'd kill for the new this, and die for the best that,
Like we'd die for the teachings that have gone before.
Sale now on.
Sail on, now.
To a new world of vanity and drowning man's grasps.
Everything must go.
Must get everything.
Fill the basket.
Max the card.
The new Psalms will be here come next pay-day.