A hymn for modern times

The creeping limping feet of worn-out gods Disturb my sleep; the rotten little sods After my soul again, that much is clear. They want my love, or failing that my fear I used to be immune to all their chat but ageing and friends' deaths have weakened that. I need to keep them out; like rats and mice they chitter and they shit, and like head lice they make me scratch and bleed and pick the scab that once was my belief. They want me drab and tortured with self-doubt.They want me slaved to some pathetic hope that I'll be saved. And they can fuck right off. At last I'm free of all the scruples that imprisoned me And manage to be kind without their nudge. I stand here unbelieving will not budge For all I quite suspect that they exist; I will not pray, but rather make a fist. The gods that bully us - not worth the spit I'd waste on altars; some god that would sit in cafes, drink espresso, be a friend her I'd consider. I would never send her prayers - I'd buy her sandwiches and cake. Though there are principles I wouldn't break For any god, I'm flexible as hell where good times are concerned. A god could sell a one-on-one relationship with me no sacrifices, but I'd pour her tea. And no commandments, though I'd take advice. No majesty, no terror, someone nice. We'd flirt a little and then hug goodbye I'd think about her with a little sigh So, if she's out there, please drop me a line. The others, bearded, threatening, stalking swine I'm done with you. It's over, and we're through You angels, virgins, saints and martyrs too.