To make the trees' plump branches sway,
Whose thick green leaves hang down to pray.
The stiff, tall churches vomit out
Their rustling masses of devout,
Tall churches whose stained Gothic night
Refuses to receive the light!
Watch how the stately walk along
Toward the terrace, join the throng
That paces carefully up and down
Above a cut-out cardboard town!
With prayer-book rigid in each hand,
They look below at sea and sand.
The round contentment in their eyes
Betrays their favourite fond surmise,
That all successful at a trade
Shall tread an eternal Church-Parade,
And every soul that's sleek and fat
Shall gain a heavenly top-hat.
From out the Church's Gothic night,
Past beds of blossoms china-bright,
Beneath the green trees' porous shade,
We watch the sea-side Church-Parade.