Sunday Poem

At times our errors are turned against us. Pizza Boy lies about why he works part time to… well he got South Australia into ha lockdown.

Every time I think that our politicians in New Zealand love them their power and lack humility, some premier of an Aussie state tells me to hold their XXXX[1].

Now, let’s think about this. Why did Pizza Boy lie to the authorities? This is pure speculation, admittedly, but here’s my answer:

He didn’t want to lose his job.

A government like this would not have hesitated to shut down the pizzeria for two weeks of quarantine while giving all his coworkers PCR suppositories and terrorizing all the customers they could find with the idea that that wasn’t pepperoni they just ate. Thus, he said that he’d just stopped by for a quick slice and that’s why his shirt has the pizzeria’s logo on it, or something.

I discounted the alternative hypothesis, that he was taking revenge on the pizzeria for some fault, because Marshall ended the lockdown early. He wouldn’t have done that unless he was afraid the truth would come out and make him look bad.

Alas for Pizza Boy, Marshall was itching for a scratching that day and went Hitler on the pizzeria regardless. And on the rest of the planet, too, for good measure. Which is surely how they found out Pizza Boy had lied about not being an employee there in the first place.


Regardless, today’s poem is about repentence. And that sometimew where we did break we come back stronger. Herbert, at his most humane.


Lord, I confesse my sinne is great;
Great is my sinne. Oh! gently treat
With thy quick flow’r, thy momentarie bloom;
Whose life still pressing
Is one undressing,
A steadie aiming at a tombe.

Mans age is two houres work, or three:
Each day doth round about us see.
Thus are we to delights: but we are all
To sorrows old,
If like be told
From what life feeleth, Adams fall.

O let thy height of mercie then
Compassionate short-breathed men.
Cut me not off for my most foul transgression:
I do confesse
My foolishnesse;
My God, accept of my confession.

Sweeten at length this bitter bowl,
Which thou hast pour’d into my soul;
Thy wormwood turn to health, windes to fair weather:
For if thou stay,
I and this day,
As we did rise, we die together.

When thou for sinne rebukest man,
Forthwith he waxeth wo and wan:
Bitternesse fills our bowels; all our hearts
Pine, and decay,
And drop away,
And carrie with them th’ other parts.

But thou wilt sinne and grief destroy;
That so the broken bones may joy,
And tune together in a well-set song,
Full of his praises,
Who dead men raises.
Fractures well cur’d make us more strong.

George Herbert, The Temple, 1633