Notes on St. Augustine

(Or how old habits die hard.)

St Augustine, in late middle age

“The time has surely not yet come

to draw an end to harmless fun

And games; the merest peccadilloes?

Frivolities beneath the sun,

The lesser forms of sinfulness,

With silken girls of winsomeness

In boudoirs strewn with pillows?

But woe is me! The die is cast,

My lot is tribulation:

The greatest thrill I’ve known of late -

Twelve amps defibrillation!

Yet damned if I’ll give up the Ghost

And live without a vice:

There must be something else to try

To add that certain, vital, spice.

Avoiding what is mauvais ton

Or seen as a faux pas,

I’d rather like some joie de vivre

Mixed with je ne sais quoi...

Vodka, beer, and Jesus juice

Just mess with my affections,

And smoking dope – so strong these days! –

Is apt to get me sectioned.

Marlboro Red and Café Crème

Are suave, there’s no denying.

But coughing up one’s guts at night -

The wife, she says it’s ‘trying’.

Some things these days they say to tell

The doc’ without compunction

Appear to have come to pass, I fear.

(Like sexual dysfunction:

Yes, when it comes to small blue pills,

Of course - I get the premise.

But find myself tongue-tied, alas,

With ladies at the chemist.)

But I’m not that keen on buggery,

Blue movies aren’t my bag;

Real flesh, not something rubbery,

Is what might hoist the flag.

(Yet flirting at the pool,

Is a country mile from cool,

You’re simply bound to look a fool

When those pecs begin to sag...)

But heck: I got to fifty-five!

This year, God willing - fifty-six!

I’m not so old and tired a mutt

That I can’t master brand new tricks!”

—

So Augustine called on the LORD,

(He’d take what he could get):

“It’s like I said: please make me chaste,

Dear Father – just not yet!”

His prayer rose gently, wafting up

through stratosphere and ether

And grazed a passing archangel

Who spotted far beneath her

Augustine, whom she recognised

Despite being old, and not as spruce,

From years of dissolution

And – let’s face it – self-abuse.

She set down her heavenly hymnal

(Of hand-tooled Nile papyrus)

And called across to Our Good LORD

Who was working on a virus:

“I think I’ve nearly nailed it!

A protein spike will do...”

“I hate to interrupt, LORD, but

I think this one’s for you..?”

Would somebody please turn down the blessed harps? I’m on the tricky bit and trying to concentrate.

The LORD put down his petri dish

And reached for his pince-nez

To spy Augustine down below

And set him on His Way.

“Augie, nice to hear from you!

I thought I’d slipped your mind.

I realise paths of righteousness

Are sometimes hard to find.

One gets tied up in reveries

Of Hell and that chap Satan:

Those pitchforks, fires and unclean things

In landscapes of damnation.

I gather you’re still hard at work

Researching venal sin?

To see which type might ease the pain

Of the predicament you’re in?

Well, since you’ve got in touch again,

Begging leave for yet more fun,

Permit me to presume to say

You’ve had an awful lot of play,

And misbehaved in every way

Conceivable on Earth today,

(I note you’ve seldom stopped to pray...)

So if I were you, I’d not delay:

My son, the time has come!”

Augustine felt at once downhearted

He really thought he’d barely started

Getting used to being free.

He’d never, ever really partied,

The gravy train – was it departed?

"Hey driver, driver - wait for me!"

The LORD, of course, had read his mind

Eons and eons ago,

And knew just what Augustine needed

But hadn’t had the wit to know.

“Augustine, beloved son: the answer’s Heaven sent...”

“Oh no, LORD, is what you’re saying... that it’s time that I repent..?”

The LORD reached for a thunderbolt,

The earth began to shake...

God put the lightning down again,

And thusly he did spake:

“Now listen, Augie, heed me well. I'm dealing with my rages:

Compare me now to Genesis, or sundry darker pages.

I cope with low-brow atheists. I’m prepared to bide my time

With shilly-shallying doubtful ones - I know they’ll end up fine.

I even love the militants, who claim that they abhor me.

But do you know, dear Augie, who they are

Who really - REALLY - bore me?

It’s pusillanimous ne’er-do-wells

WHO END MY SENTENCES FOR ME!”

Augustine felt the Wrath of God

And powers beyond his ken

A-swirling round about his dizzy head,

A shadow among men!

But then he found the strength to whisper:

“LORD... it isn’t if... it’s when..?”

And God reached down and held him tight:

“It’s NOW, my son!”

Amen.