Consumer congregation congregated in concrete aggregation,
drawn by the promise and expectation of capitalist salvation,
on a traffic-jammed road to Damascan styled enlightenment,
the preacher is anonymous and the zealots frightening.

The New Church has no spires,
there are no crosses here,
and the voices are remote in marbled halls,
and the flocks are watched by camera eyes.

Welcome to the Trafford church,
the Lakeside church,
the Metro church,
the Bluewater church,
modern edifices satisfying modern salvation,
built on what was once the ploughman's earth,
snatched to provide the people
with a bright and plastic religion,
in a new and greedy nation.

Welcome to the New Church,
come and be seduced by blazing neon,
and covet what you cannot have.
Worship at the praying screen,
give freely to the lords of design,
donate to the power of needful convention,
give thanks for the new size 8,
and show no repentance.

Welcome to the Old Church,
half empty, and mostly going rotten.
With it's roof appeal fund sign,
fluttering in the callous wind of change.
Nothing quite so sad,
as those who are forgotten.