Look, lads, we're all addicted to faith.
Even those dour souls who have erected their shrines
To logic and the tangible are not immune to a flutter on a pony
Whose name reminds them of their first love from long ago,
Or the street where their Gram once lived.
Despite that, they pooh-pooh the notion of belief,
And, what's more, not content with mere uncertainty,
They will, with the unnecessary shrillness of the perpetually disappointed,
Endeavor, in spite of the best advice of philosophers and logicians,
To prove the ultimate negative.
Now, I'm not saying they're wrong for sure--not for me to say,
But, to my way of thinking, the Almighty and the afterlife
Is the ultimate dead cert; you can't argue with the payoff,
And you're walking to the bookie's window clutching nothing
But house money.