(In Chapel, male prisoners are partitioned off from females.)
We go on Sunday to the Church,
And sit amongst the boys;
The girls are on the other side,
We tell that by the noise,
The warders grim, our shepherds are,
Perched on their seats to view
The motley: flock of wayward sheep
They watch the service through.
Of prayer, and chant, and sacred verse,
The pastor spares he none;
An' in his prayers confesses oft
The rotten things we've done.
‘Twirls seem his God's a magistrate;
Safe seated up on high,
Who, when he hears the weekly tale,
Must surely wink his eye.
A summary of war-like news
Each Sunday morn provides,
And parson's magisterial God
Compelled is to take sides.
He must become a God of War
To help us smite the German,
And so establish peace on earth
By sword in place of sermon.
At last the service to a close
The parson duly bringeth,
And through the Chapel dolefully
Jehovah’s praises ringeth,
With pose affected, hands outstretched,
He benediction utters;
Methinks his love for fellow-men
Amicted is with stutters.
Breaking the Fetters 