Rats in the Belfry

Little wooden boy
High up in your tower
He rings the morning bells
clasps his hands in devotion
Little wooden boy
Can not leave his lacuna
Lest he be no longer sacred
Or scared presently

Little wooden boy
All alone in the belfry
He hears the Churchgoers
whispering, love and dismay
They beg God for forgiveness
He knows God would rather they bleed

Oh mighty one
Do not appear visionary
Do not attempt to bring me peace
Or speak of my ills
I can not hear you
i am afraid I am lost.

Little wooden boy
Look down at your hands
They are faded, musty; broken with age!

O’ lord do not preach to me
See I've been in this atticc
Far longer than any priest knows
I knew their fathers, fathers before those
I have watched from the steeple
The trail of people
That push in and out through these doors

They say
’God is for the poor and the healthy,
the sick and deranged,
Just come to church,
Your soul will be saved!
By the light of Jesus,
come one and all,
take a seat in a pew,
Let us sing him a canticle,
There is space just for you,
Under the light o’ the lord.’

O’ gracious one; to you I would ask,
Please stop me being eaten by rats.
They have no ill will,
or design for contempt,
But they are gnawing my bones,
And I would like it to end.

If you can not do that,
I implore so, so politely…
Shut the attic door,
Leave, step lightly.