Behold, faithful zealots and sinners alike, 

whose throat closes tight after toil and hike,

my temple will serve famished pilgrims their pith

when trekkers sense more of my legend than myth.

 

Offerings they spare me in puffs of gray vapor,

with blackened gum globs and discarded newspapers.

Imagine what blessings their treasures trade for:

I have more than water, than wine, I have more.

 

Lend a spare coin to this humble god’s coffer

I’ll save up enough for a round sterling saucer

with just the few pennies you leave to my care.

Too far to bend over, too busy for prayer.

 

And in his big rush, might the passer consider;

When altars like mine were much brighter, much bigger.

 

Where once a great shrine stood proclaiming my godship,

now petrified juggernauts stand in its home.

The piece I had claimed was a back alley walking strip.

Why did I stay when my house turned to stone?

 

Behold, fretful pilgrims, I forecast yet hope:

The temple beside mine now offers you Coke.