Generic

I was denied the cup, 
A chalice for the chosen, 
With a gift of promise 
That tomorrow comes salvation. 
As I watched the posh masses 
Line up for a sip 
With petty sins of squabble 
Being washed away, 
My paltry pittance clinks 
But offers no relief 
As four and twenty pence 
Cannot dissolve a sin. 
The upper crusty saints 
Rejoice in their tidings 
That their patent leather soles 
Shall grace the floors of heaven, 
Downtrodden mourners 
That gather in my circle 
Already know those cloudy rooms 
Are not for the chimney sweeps. 
Will there be room for us 
Beside that eternal fire 
Where the misery of this life 
Shall seem but a blissful memory?

Indulgence