Jesus doesn’t ride this bus anymore,

he moved to the suburbs and drives a hybrid so he doesn’t have to feel guilty.

He’s doing his part you know,

to save the world.

He’s gotten old and fat drinking too many cold beers

and paying the neighbor kid twenty bucks to mow the lawn.

Jesus has no need for the monthly passes on this old jalopy,

he’s moved on to powerpoint and microphones,

and the tithing is coming in nicely.

No, Jesus doesn’t ride this bus anymore,

slick with the scent of unwashed feet,

this bus of the great and teeming,

this massive coach

now they come to him chartered,

belting out meaningless hymns mindless with praise and adoration.

A simple twist of the message,

turn the cheek so far your back is turned upon those

heaped with the stones of the righteous,

Selling forgiveness is fine for the dollar stores, but

Jesus doesn’t rid this bus anymore,

so to hell the with clanging a bell in the cold outside the supermarket,

pack the faithful in with guitar solos of religious fervor

and pass pass pass the collection plate.

We’ll be here though,

sitting just over a topography of dried chewing gum,

staring at the lighter burns in the seats,

hoping for patterns in the tiny improvised sculptures of urban char-art.

Even amidst the stench of us,

it beats hell out of choking on a faith, exhausted.

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