(Click here to follow Pavel's ongoing epic poem “The Shoulder of the Sun.” You may visit Pavel's website at http://www.greyowlpress.com.)
by Pavel Chichikov
The giant Christopher, who some insist
Is legendary, dead, does not exist
Doubles up his full length in the pew
Is seen by no one, none, perhaps by few
He wears a pair of clogs, a bathing suit
For purposes of wading, he's hirsute
And luckily, he has no other clothes,
His bushy beard is substitute for those
He never prays, or seldom, to the Lord
An empty head is effortlessly bored
And as for vigil, fasting and petition
He vows them all, but never to fruition
For Christopher a lengthy sleep is meat
He never gets through grace before he eats
As for disquisitions, saintly lore
A word of wisdom's one colossal snore –
But when a flood of hell runs through the nave
Batters at the altar, and a wave
Rears up to throw the tabernacle down
Thinks to wrestle Christ until He drowns
Christopher unthinking as a soldier
Takes the weeping Christchild on his shoulder
