things move around

If you’re going to pray, don’t address your prayers to God,
pray to the impotent instead:
the flea-bitten dog in the dirt,
the meteorologist with a permanent cold in his head,
the alcoholic born and bred in Riyadh
or the nun with a habit.

Don’t pray to God,
pray to the ignorant instead:
venerate the dunce’s hat,
the bus-passenger ranting and waving his mastercard,
the Englishman abroad,
and every other numbskull and retard you meet.

No, don’t pray to God;
worship the crazed and afflicted:
the bare-chested man bellowing from the canal boat,
the woman who loves tweed,
and the bloke in the designer suit who stands in the road
scattering seeds on the tarmac in the dead of night.