A Tuesday night it is, and all is still;
The parson, newly hired, reviews the work
Much needed in the church where rodents lurk
And drop their filth with sacrilegious skill;
Disheartened by neglect, he steels his will
Against his knee-jerk instincts with a smirk–
Despite his qualms, he knows he cannot shirk
The charge for which he’s destined to fulfill.
With contemplative gait, he makes his way
Towards the altar, past the empty pews
Where martyrs on a weeknight don’t belong;
And as he walks, he softly starts to pray
For courage and the strength to voice his views
To thrust them on an apathetic throng.