You do not love me either

In chapel every Sunday, bellies burgeoning with disrespect,
Hot rolls, butter, stuffed down, rinsed in urn-stale tea,
Always late, clanking full of indigestion and chatter
From dining hall, we rang-sang out, lacking
All affection, ‘And did those feet in ancient times…’-
Our school hymn as habitual as picking our noses
In the pews. In Wells Cathedral I used to kick the chairs
Of other students, guffawing at toppling clatter
On the sainted slabs. Once whilst pondering the crossword
Clue of crucifixion I reflected on the paradox that no one
Likes a martyr. Later, as I promoted the colder lines of
Rationality over emotional supplication, whilst hiding Blake
Beneath my mattress and rolling my eyes at ‘Songs
Of Praise’ – I thought it is no wonder You do not love me.