Posted by:
esias
(
)
Date: May 09, 2012 05:20AM
One is warm and comfy and friendly and full of florid flunkies swapping tall tales, the other cold and creepy and crammed with crinkly, cruel and spider-veined old men.
Poets and writers have long drawn the comparison between the one place in the village you are guaranteed a spiritual reception, and the other guaranteed to suck the life from your wearied soul.
Oh hello, Bish, what are you doing here?
Dear Mother, dear Mother, the Church is cold,
But the Ale-house is healthy & pleasant & warm;
Besides I can tell where I am used well,
Such usage in heaven will never do well.
But if at the Church they would give us some Ale,
And a pleasant fire our souls to regale,
We'd sing and we'd pray all the live-long day,
Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray.
Then the Parson might preach, & drink, & sing,
And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring;
And modest dame Lurch, who is always at Church,
Would not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birds.
And God, like a father rejoicing to see
His children as pleasant and happy as he,
Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the Barrel,
But kiss him, & give him both drink and apparel. (William Blake, The Little Vagabond)
We for a certainty are not the first
Have sat in taverns while the tempest hurled
Their hopeful plans to emptiness, and cursed
Whatever brute and blackguard made the world.
It is in truth iniquity on high
To cheat our sentenced souls of aught they crave,
And mar the merriment as you and I
Fare on our long fool’s-errand to the grave.
(A E Housman, Poem IX stanzas III & IV)
I have a dream, dear brothers and sisters. To convert every austere Morg building in Utah into a free house dedicated to the welfare of the community.
Sorry, Bish. I've blown me tithing money.