Found this rad poem the other day by Steve Collins.
Jesus is in the sleeping bag
he comes round anytime he likes.
Right time, wrong time
he don't mind.
Foxes have holes, birds have nests
but the Son of Man has the sofa.
He's poking around the fridge
which needs defrosting.
Old sins stuck in the ice box
fruit gone bad
Leftovers still left over
he throws them out.
I guess I should clean up but i never get much warning.
but I'd still rather he came.
We sit up late talking
where we've been
where we're going next
he's already bought some tickets
all i have to do is take time off work.
Good night rustle in the corner.
The room feels warmer
with him in it.