The good news is there is hope for us all—
Each of us willing to toe the line,
Speak the gospel, hunker to the grind
And muster a fistful of coin
Or half an act of Sunday faith—
That each of us may someday own
The mansion on the hill,
The thousand green acres and seven car garage.

Observance will begin the usual ways—
Closing the eyes, bending
The knee, bowing the head,
Clicking the heels three times,
Spitting on a slice of bread—
So that paradise may spread before us,
A raw shucked oyster
Glistening with wet salvation.

So you see, it’s all ours' to choose,
The righteous path, the lucky number;
To conjure the unpronounceable name
Or grease the pearly hand
Brandishing the keys
To the gate, the upstairs room
Chock full of vestal virgins
Yearning for surrender.