Dead Time

If only I could recover some of that dead time
Those lost hours, kneeling by my bed, praying (for God's sake!)
Sunday mornings spent lip-syncing archaic hymns
in dank churches, perched high on a fat, fusty cushion
Forty long minutes each school-day listening to apathetic teachers
Parroting tall tales from a threadbare tome

I should have been honing my snooker skills
in the twilit depths of Annie's labyrinthine halls
Pressing cigarette packets into Salvation Army hardbacks
Debating philosophy with cynical old soaks
Reading Superman comics under gaz lighting and
mastering the thirteenth and final verse of “The good ship Venus”

Where were the purveyors of sage advice
Who should have been preparing me for the real world
The open-minded, rational souls, with good intent?
Were they trapped, each Sunday morning, in the front pew
Sandwiched between watchful elders and plate passers
Bellowing discordant, worshipful supplication at a non-existent deity?