He fried eleven fish, fed us and said 

Eat, I’ve knocked my fuckin pan in for this.

But my altar boy ears heard

Take this all of you 

and eat it. This is my body 

which will be given up for you daily

in white hot steelworks and wet construction sites.

His hands drove nails through the toughest timbers.

His sides bled sweat and blistered vinegar.

 

Yet, throughout the last days, we had him wear 

a crown of thorns because he drank cheap wine 

day and night to escape our spears and slings

over things that went not quite right for us.

Thankless children, muscle work, alcohol and blame?

The end was always going to be the same.