Wednesday, August 15, 2007


Jesus spluttered into Dublin on a motorbike,
The people lined the Navan Road, saying, “Jaysus, what’s he like?”

We rode with Him that perfect day, performing escort duty,
Like flies that hover all around a rose of wondrous beauty.

At the GPO he gave a speech so clear and graphic,
Until the Gardai moved him on for blocking up the traffic.

Throughout the week, he drove around the confines of the city,
Blessing those who came to Him, exuding love and pity.

In the Park, ten thousand people watched without a sound,
As Jesus grasped the Papal Cross and tore it from the ground.

We hand-plucked band of followers did hang on every word,
Marvelling at things we saw, and everything we heard.

A travelling man lay dying in his roadside caravan,
Jesus kissed his forehead and he woke, a healthy man.

He spoke with love and friendliness to everyone He’d meet,
Until, that is, he went to Mass up in Whitefriars Street.

He pulled the ranks of Mass cards down, thus causing their disbandment,
While yelling fiercely, “Don’t ye know the second great Commandment?”

Eyes ablaze, He threw a punch at the Virgin Mary’s head-
It shattered on the cold, stone floor – the congregation fled.

St. Matthew too came tumbling down, St. Francis and St. Paul,
The plaster statue of Himself, He smashed against the wall.

The Gards rushed in, but Jesus knelt in silent adoration,
They waited till He’d finished and then brought Him to the station.

For five long hours, He answered all their idiotic questions,
And smiled at their frustration and their often-lewd suggestions.

Outside, some people knelt and prayed, and called Him the Redeemer,
While others howled out for His blood and called Him a blasphemer.

The networks tried to analyse His mesmeric effect,
Some claimed He was a charlatan, the leader of a sect.

Inspector Brady then hit on the easiest solution,
And sent Him up to Dundrum to the mental institution.

There they gave Him one small shot, and brought Him to His bed,
But, when they checked Him in the night, sweet Jesus lay there dead.

The pathologist came scurrying, red-faced and out of breath,
But, though he tried, he could not find the reason for His death.

They brought Him to the mortuary, and locked him in a drawer,
Then read a brief press statement to a hundred hacks or more.

On Sunday, when they let us in, we were horrified to find
The body missing from the drawer, the blankets left behind.

They questioned each of us, of course, until the early morning,
But in the end, they freed us with a not-so-friendly warning.

The papers all conjectured on the plot that we were hatching,
Accusing us of trickery, deceit and body-snatching.

They nailed His memory to the cross, suspecting grand collusion,
While we laid low, as best we could, amid the mass confusion.

We all met up in Mulligan’s and, in an upstairs room,
We railed against injustice in an atmosphere of gloom.

Then suddenly, a ball appeared, a huge and fiery sun,
It settled on our heads in turn, baptised us one by one.

And when it left, our spirits rose and our resolve was greater,
We’d spread the Word throughout the world, we’d witnessed the Creator.

I got a phone-call yesterday from Kate in Skibbereen,
She said, “Hey, Pete, I bet you’ll never guess who I’ve just seen…”

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