For Christ the Lord

Take your simian little body

To a building very tall,

Pace the observation-platform,

See how high the fall,

See the big important headlines

In the newsboy’s stall.

Think of Hilda on the sofa

Sobbing out your name,

Placing hyacinths before you

In a gilded frame

On the table where the family

Spreads in photographic fame.

Think of Benny at the tavern

In between the rounds of beer

Wiping up the little puddles

On the counter, year on year,

How he’ll tell the boys the story

With the rest they always hear.

Think, Luigi, of the factory

By the low-tide river’s stench,

How the foreman, Tim O’Brady,

Cannot stop the wrench

Of his Irish heart, when he

Passes by your empty bench.

Think of Father Rattatucci

Praying for the dead,

Untold Paters, untold Aves,

Untold Glorias will be said,

All to save you, our Luigi,

From the terrible dread.

Jump, my Christ, my dear Luigi,

Greet two million eyes

Over bathrobed coffee breakfasts,

Be the bored surprise

When the tabloids give the lowdown

How the Son of Glory dies.

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