I Sold Your Fingers

You had ten,
I was skint to patching point
and lord knows
only two of them get aired
or submerged
on a regular basis
anyway.

Anyhow, you'll like the buyer.
He brown-papers parts of dead saints
in his Vatican office,
then posts them
to those in need of faith power-ups.

Unfortunately the good-guy corpse stock
is waning faster than demand,
and far be it for me -
or you for that matter -
to deny desperate pastors
teetering on a lapse
their decomposing digit of comfort.

It doesn't matter
that you have never
fasted, martyred your arse,
been chased with torches,
preached kindness, or ever
really suffered.

Your fingers
will age falsely fast, gaining gravity
like coffee-stained school project magna cartas,
but the rest of you
should be dandy for years yet.

Oh that? Not to worry.
I know my obligations.
At your shoulder
like a sticky nit, I'll transcribe your memoirs,
brush your teeth,
tug your faux-saintly sceptre to bliss
of a morning, even
head out in the storms of October
for your shopping. And baby,
we can afford the nice stuff now.