Five, Four, Three

They are five, or four, or three.

The same five, or four or three

Always sitting in the second last pew

Of every church I've ever seen.

From them a visible steam arises,

Not a steam of honest ungodly passions

But a subtler vapour, less direct, and

         considerably more perilous.

But not the same steam rising from each of the

         five, or four, or three.

From one a vapour calls out "I'm all alone

         take care of me, take care of me, take care of me."

From another "I have no voice at home

         no-one listens to the silence that I make."

Another spews smoke and fume of old abuses

         long buried in the primal memory.

Still another, prim and always master of her ship

         and yours, and yours, and yours and mine.

The last hungry eyed and hungry wombed

         smouldering in endless discontent.

They are five, or four, or three.

From them a visible steam arises, saying

"No! Not now! No change! Too fast! Everybody doesn't like!

Everybody doesn't like! No! Not now! No change! Too fast!"

 A poem from my series of Kentucky Melodies