A Christless Mass

The sledge bells drown

The bell that tolled,

For every lay-clown

With nothing to hold.



And a silent child,

Is lost in his fold.

And the message mild,

Will remain untold.



Christmas advances,

So revel a while:

Have your illicit romances,

And all shall smile.



         Each take your scars

         And make a smile,

         For soon – guitars, cigars – all of them ours

         And slowly beguile,

         Your stars here from mars

         And files all your forgotten trial.



         The high streets are ablaze,

         With the latest craze,

         With their fiscal love,

         And their defiled grace thereof.

         Shall I alone count the days,

         Till all these façades melt away?



With the advent of,

God knows what,

Let not the labour of love,

Be turned again to smut,

This year.