Young Jesus grew up in an ordinary way,
Like a normal young boy, neither drunken nor gay,
Nothing about him was seedy or weird,
'Til he turned seventeen and then grew a long beard.
His parents despaired as he donned his bright beads,
Played records by Gong, Jethro Tull and The Seeds,
And wore frightful flares that were purple and wrong,
And smoked best moroccan from out of a bong.
By night he hung out with strange men with long hair,
Who took LSD and did not seem to care,
And discussed Plato, Nietzsche, Van Fraasen and Kant,
Like a big bunch of students, all night they would rant.
Now Mary was scary but not even she,
Could control her young son now, so wayward was he,
He went out all the time - every day, every night,
He had no respect, the ungrateful gobshite.
Joseph knew Jesus could not be his son,
And had resented his presence from the year 0001,
So one day poor Jesus returned from a binge,
To find on the doorstep a bag of his things.
Homeless and hungry he slept on the street,
With no-one to love him and nothing to eat,
So desperate was he as he munched mouldy bread!
Until he remembered what his mother had said.
"Jesus!" she'd told him when he was but four,
"You're right bloody special, you, that's for sure,
Your dad isn't Joseph, not that lazy sod,
Your real dad is special - in fact, it's God."
Now Jesus had always been quite a bright chap,
And he'd always known this was a huge crock of crap,
But now he was thinking - the thought grew and grew.
And suddenly he knew what he ought to do.
He called round his friends, who were hippies or thugs,
And he spiked all their lager with mind-bending drugs,
Then he told them "I'm Christ, I'm the son of the Lord!
You must follow me, guys, Heaven shalt be your reward!"
The Gospel According To Kate
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