This poem was written after a serious debate on the merits of organized religion with a group of missionaries.

Woodstock, Penn State, Tienamen Square,

I speak of them reverantly,

though I wasnt even there.

And this point you quite often declare,

when I speak of El Che’s deeds,

your reply is always “you weren’t even there!”

I speak of the Sudanese and the tragedies they bear,

and how we should give them aid,

but you dont give a damn, you aren’t even there.

Nay your larger worries are the books men read and the clothes they wear,

and when i ask why you so imperiously judge,

your reply is the will of God, but how could you know he isnt ever there?

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