Grace

I'm macerating in my own juice here,
Like that delicious fruit in alcohol
You have there on the mantel, by the doll
With an expression of distaste and fear.
You understand, I love you and revere
Your every thought, even the ones you call
Religious, but I'd rather hit the mall
And shop for thongs than pray. I hope that's clear.

I hold no brief against that holy wine,
Or St. John's Passion. Those things seem all right,
And if you want to eat by candlelight
I don't need to inspect the food. I'm fine
With your believing in something divine,
But supper's growing cold, and that's not right.