A few week ago I returned to St Greg’s 

Which was my local ghetto church 

I was a choirboy there for a number of years 

No jokes please as he is still in jail 

He was in the cell next to me 

I was part of the Really Annoyed Brigade 

This Sixth Point Gothic Church 

Was in the rough part of town 

It even had its own scaffold 

Near the lychgate 

None of its silver had survived the years 

Everything was made out of clay

I spoke to curate as the vicar was still in hospital 

Recovering from his stab wounds 

The curate after showing me his gun collection

Asked about the occasion of my visit 

I told him that I had read in the Sun 

That the church was giving away money 

Because of the Queen Anne something 

I was politely told that there was a small problem 

This confused me so I enquired about the inhibition 

The curate asked about my family history 

My mum bless her soul was from Stoke 

And I never knew my Icelandic father 

He then took me by my pale hand 

I was not eligible to receive these alms of guilt 

As my skin was quite white and I had a double first 

I protested that although I was not sold into slavery 

By the chief of our jungle village 

That I was indeed related 

To a creature dark of colour 

It was then I showed him Eva 

Who had been shitting on a grave 

The curate made a fuss of my black bitch 

Who then bit him 

He bowed his head in a Christlike way

And told me that I still did not qualify 

But to ensure that my journey had not been totally wasted 

He handed me a packet of cream crackers 

From a damp box

 Late of the food local bank