So I asked if the Humanist would give my address:

I'd be careful to avoid words like God and Bless,

'cause to get these sentences humanely dispatched

they must pass his censorship without any catch.

Could I speculate upon What Comes After?

I felt like the bloke in that book by Kafka,

on trial for offences that weren't made explicit

and in fear that the secular police might visit.

Caught between the God Squad and Richard Dawkins

I’m empowered, not a coward, I’ll do my own talking.

My very first gig as a performance poet

at my father's funeral – hope I don’t blow it.

 

Stage fright ain’t so bad when you wear a disguise, 

so I’ve put on this hat, shaded my eyes 

and read these lines a hundred times to try and get it

free of all the pain like an anaesthetic.

I thought, what if we share, make it a family affair,

then it wasn’t just me on my own up there.

I figured sometime during the funeral service

before his body had been thrown in the furnace

my brothers and I could make this a rap,

with me at the front and the bros at the back

joining in at the end of each line with a shout.

They could clap their hands, they could dance about.

They could point their fingers for emphasis,

weave from side to side just like my melodies;

then the congregation would get off their chair

and we’d move in time until death weren’t there.

    

But it ain’t gonna happen for a million pound,

it’s just a vision in my head that won’t lie down.  

An enduring image, as they say on The Fast Show - 

would’ve been a blast, though, we could’ve made Glasto!