They are proclaiming their allegiance to God
With the loud voice of brass
Their only audience is the rain
And a few disinterested pedestrians
Walking home from the pub or newsagent
On a Sunday afternoon.

Does their faith make them impervious
To the condition of the weather
As well the general lethargy that greets them.

Smart groomed uniforms, buttons gleaming
Bright shining instruments, oom pah!
The battle cry of their religion
They all look so ****** healthy and happy

Do they really know something I don't
Or are they the ones missing the point

seeking shelter

The lights go out and the walls begin to rattle.
17 men sleep on the floor in one small dining room's shadow.
The sounds of sniffles and coughs spike, then die out neat.
The real crescendo comes two minutes later, when snoring begins to peak.

On hard linoleum floor, packed in elbow to elbow,
with all the sound of appliances in the kitchen
And now of course, this human instrumental...

Good food,
we all get to eat,
glass still half full
when you remember...
It's either stinky feet,
or a night on the street