BLACK COUNTRY GOTHIC

They felt safe then

so I've heard

Under their

Thick black blanket

Of industry

Now they kneel and pray

At the steel alter

a hopeless congregation

At a godless mass

The black-country monks

Gargling hymns and eating the body

Of some budget Christ

With dirty children

Off-white angels

Kicking feral pigeons

And picking up half smoked nub-ends

taught to never look up

And scour the ground

Future is a funny word

Future is a silver dream

Gargling hymns and eating the body

Of some bastard Christ

kicking stones

At the shapes of

Yesterday's ghosts

One day you'll find me by the water

Kicking stones at

Yesterday's ghosts