O Lord on thy new Liverpool address
let no bombs fall
Gather not relics in the attic
nor dust in the hall
But daily may a thousand friends
who want to chat just call
Let it not be a showroom
for wouldbe good Catholics
or worse:
a museum
a shrine
a concrete hearse
But let it be a place
Where lovers meet after work
for kind words and kisses
Where dockers go of a Saturday night
to get away from the missus
Tramps let kip there through till morning
kids let rip there every evening
Let us pray there
heads held high
arms to the sky
not afraid and kneeling
let Koppites
teach us how to sing
God’s ‘Top of the Pops’ with feeling
After visiting you
May trafficwardens let noisy parkers off
and policemen dance on the beat
Barrowomen knock a shilling off
exatheists sing in the street
And let the cathedral laugh
Even show its teeth
And if it must wear the cassock of dignity
Then let’s glimpse the jeans beneath
O Lord on thy new Liverpool address
let no bombs fall
Keep always a light in the window
a welcome mat in the hall
That it may be a home sweet
home from home for all.