Let Them Not Make Me A Stone

None Of Our Hearts Are Pure, We Always Have Mixed Motives. Are Self Deceivers, But The Worst Of All Deceits Is To Murmur 'lord, I Am Not Worthy' And, Lying Easy, Turn Your Face To The Wall.

The Sunlight On The Garden Hardens And Grows Cold, We Cannot Cage The Minute Within Its Nets Of Gold

There Seeps From Heavily Jowled Or Hawk-like Foreign Faces The Guttural Sorrow Of The Refugees.

I Was The Rector's Son, Born To The Anglican Order, Banned For Ever From The Candles Of The Irish Poor; The Chichesters Knelt In Marble At The End Of A Transept With Ruffs About Their Necks, Their Portion Sure.

It's No Go The Merry-go-round, It's No Go The Rickshaw All We Want Is A Limousine And A Ticket For The Peepshow.