The Sleepers

The Gods are not dead;they are sleeping like ferrets,
Curled up in their underground temples of gold,
And they smile as they dream of fresh worlds where their merits
Are properly prized and they never grow old.

They smile in their sleep. Their triangular teeth are
As white as the smocks of the virginal martyrs,
Whose psalming and incense swirl up to the ether:
Sweet, spiritual smells and religious cantatas.

How weary, these Gods, when their efforts to please us
Are written on water or crumble to dust!
Now Phoebus Apollo and Brahma and Jesus
All sleep the Elysian sleep of the just.

Will they wake? But why should they, now no-one supposes
Mere prayers can alleviate famine or flood?
So they sleep and they smile, and their sharp little noses
Just wrinkle a little -- as if they smelt blood.

--John Whitworth