Church Collection Box.
By P.B. Phillips

Can you say for sure

The two plus two is four

 

That a blue sky is blue

That I’m me, and I’m not you

 

It is certain do you think

That black’s the best ink

 

Are you positive that octopi

Have more than one eye

 

Do you frown

That gravity is down

When Eisenstein says that it’s up

 

Facts you can measure

Should fill you with pleasure

As they are difficult to dispute

 

Science is not fluff

Like religion and such stuff

 

Worshiping atoms is elemental

Praying to a God, just plain mental

 

Free yourself to seek the truth

That’s the cry of the youth………….

 

But, as you get older

You’ll become less-bolder

To doubt that no heaven exists

 

You are not indestructible

 

So eat lots of fiber

Don’t fly a hang glider

Step, your ten thousand a day

 

Cos on your death bed

Your face contorted and red

 

The priest might grumble

That you’ve not been humble

Leaving you in the lurch.

 

As you just can’t be sure

That there’s no white door

 

Or that St. Peter not waiting

To open the pearly gate in

 

So what! if it turns out to be humbug

 

And dead is just dead

That the Life that you led

Was all in your head

You are just chemistry after all

 

But this is it,

You just won’t know

Til the final death throw

 

Hedge your bets

Be wise,

Be smart and cunning as the fox

And pop the odd fiver

In a church collection box.

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