There is a formula for life, a bill
of quantities - one gross assorted bones,
one bag of nerves, one epidermis, black
or white, a skein of fur if you're a dog,
no eyes if you're a golden mole (they're blind),
two Presbyterian buttocks for the pew.
(Fat ones are better suited to the pew).
Assembly is prenatal, and the bill
is topped by birth. The cells divide in blind
obedience to their DNA, form bones,
muscles, organs, sinews, whether dog
or man it's all the same. It's down in black
and white, the double helix. You can black
your face or bleach it. You can shun the pew
and claim to be the Son of Man. Your dog
will never see the change. You are the bill
of fare that's printed deeper than your bones
as Long John Milton saw, and he was blind.
Predestination says - you're on a blind
adventure, never sure of when the black
spot will be thrust upon you. Though the bones
themselves rebel, it's best to grace the pew
and make believe your name is on the bill
of entry, till you're turned out like a dog.
Who knows? You might do well to be a dog.
Awake, a sensual beast; asleep, a blind
unconscious lump. Not worried by the bill
the taxman brings, you needn't fear the black
great-coated killjoy prophets from the pew,
content to crunch on liberated bones.
If Calvin built his sermons on the bones
of truth, he little knew how they would dog
with guilt his followers' lives, until the pew
seemed almost comfortable. He was blind
to niceties. His world was white or black -
a tick or cross, scribed on the heavenly bill.
So, beat your bones until your eyes are blind
or thrash your dog until your hands turn black.
Then take a pew. Your god will send the bill.