All you in your years of rotting grass
I cut my eyeteeth on you, in you
I hold up my spitface as a mirror,
Clean you in my sweatbath,
Look upon my godhead and moan, oh
Where are all my salted pounds of flesh, no not
In the ‘Wandering Bank’, stocked
With dreams of kabbalah, number, numb
Dreams of Jerusalem. Sod's Salaam, farewell,
Yes well, Yahweh, can’t ever go home – like
Pigs, all we are, we don’t eat our brothers,
We trot the fields till they put us in
Ovens, ghettoes, pigsties, maybe I am
The hairy man who porked your king those
Many, many years ago, I shall bear
The cross I was born upon,
I claim the name, suckling,
Shrug the guilt,
Shuck the lock.