Too dash, who dash through
the bounding quick of prickly prayer?
Like chalk marks on a jail side:
two Hails to go until my freedom there!
Confess it, press it out of you:
three sins, or maybe four, to square—
Not much—with God upstairs.
Then, my friend, your free-ness bear.
‘Tis all we need, we Christian crop—
Not contrition; don’t you dare!
We’ve got enough just miming clean;
let’s not be self-aware.