‘Isn’t the violet a dear little flower? And the daisy, too.
What nice little thoughts arise from a daisy!
If I were a poet now – but no, not a poet,
For a poet is a wild and blasphemous man;
He talks about wine and women too much for me
And he makes mad songs about old pagans, look you.
Poets are dangerous men to have in chapel,
And it is bad enough in chapel as it is
with all the quarelling over the organ and the deacons;
The deacons are not too nice to saintly young men like me.
(Look at Jenkins John Jones, the old damn scoundrel!)
They know I can pray for hours and hours,
They know what a righteous young man I am,
They know how my Bible is always in my pocket
And Abraham and Jonah like brothers to me,
But they prefer the proper preacher with his collar turned around;
They say he is more cultured than I am,
And what is culture but palaver and swank?
I turn up my nose at culture.
I stand up for faith, and very simple faith,
And knowledge I hate because it is poison.
Think of this devilish thing they call science,
It is Satan’s new trick to poison men’s minds.
When I shall be local councillor and a famous man –
I look forward to the day when I shall be mayor –
I will put my foot down on clever palaver,
And show what a righteous young man I am.
And they ought to know I am that already,
For I give all my spare cash to the chapel
And all my spare time to God.’
by Idris Davies