Well, they called you the Son of God

street kid

struggling and screaming

from your mother's thighs

into the welcoming world of a barn.

(I was a virgin, once.)

 

Running from the heavies

you, at least, had Egypt

and your dad had a job.

 

Your prospects aren't too bright—

Prophets aren't respected

in their own country

 

 

(If I talked out of turn

would they crucify me?)

 

 

"Small town boy makes good" -

you got promoted

to a cross.

 

Gloria in excelsis, eh?

 

I'd settle for a job

as chippy's apprentice.