Wabbling Back to the Fire

Don’t you go blaming me: Ruveka Attygalle is chiefly responsible for this great work of moral exegesis. I merely added a verse or two and did some light editing.

THE HUNGRY PROPHET

There was a young man, shrewd and wise,

Who was quick to realize

There’s much to gain from telling lies

And pulling wool o’er people’s eyes.

Thus he went to turn a profit

Making out he was a Prophet.

And this Prophet walked abroad,

Singing praises to the Lord,

Gathering up a charmless horde –

Rich and stupid, fat and bored.

Lonely, jaded, desperate,

We flocked to him and took his bait.

To us then the Saint proposed

That God was just like Santa Claus:

Keen to bless all girls and boys

With the most material joys –

Gold Rolexes, trophy brides –

Free to all who paid their tithes.

Furthermore, the Saint explained,

Being saved did not depend

On sin or virtue, love or hate,

But simply on how much you ate.

‘If through yonder Gates you’d pass,

Curb your appetite and fast.’

 ‘Holiness means skipping dinner;

‘Souls ascend as they grow thinner;

‘So, if truly saved you’d be,

‘Go Breatharian like me.’

Then we fasted and we prayed,

And to him our savings paid.

Feats of prestidigitation

Added to his reputation;

Cures miraculous he wrought,

Though of the reversible sort.

Pretty soon his fame was national;

When are people ever rational?

Thus the Prophet prospered, till

(You might call it Heaven’s will)

One fine day they caught him cheating:

Some apostate filmed him eating!

That was it: the legend crumbled,

Now the greedy fraud was rumbled.

Learning that he loved his meat,

How we wailed and gnashed our teeth!

Moans of loss and grief we uttered

Hearing he liked toast well buttered.

Some in anger left the church

And our Prophet in the lurch.

Then our lives seemed dull and empty;

How we starved amidst our plenty!

How we missed the highs of old

Which we’d paid him for with gold.

Hopeless husbands, helpless wives

Found the wow gone from their lives.

Wand’ring planets, one by one,

Back we wobbled to our Sun;

Though we knew he’d been deceiving,

It was better just believing.

Now we all cough up with zest,
Fools withal, but truly blest.