Grandad had been a well-known bloke

In and out The City Pubs

Solid, in a short-arsed frame

Braces, Boots and White Starched Cuffs.

 

I knew him after he'd found God

put down The Pint, picked up The Hod

My Uncle, he brought Jesus back

From Berlin, Imagine that.

 

Granny, had a chequered past

her lineage marred by factual gaps,

Just how the two became my blood

is known too only them, perhaps?

 

Jack came back toward Wars end,

hung up his boots to stand at ease

He introduced his martyred friend

and spread his word like a disease.

 

Grandad, he picked up The Book

He preached its word from every Hill

Hundreds came to hear and look

The Church he built is standing, still.

 

Of course, their blood flowed down to me

though somehow it was filtered pure.

Conversions which had set them free

fading from their false allure.

 

Three generations to cleanse a ghost

from revival tent to exorcised,

cast out is this unholy host

The Black Sheep of My Fathers Eyes.