Religion Camp Pt 2

The disillusioned atheist,
Bags stowed away safely,
Joins the rest of the Religious People,
On the pilgrimage to Religion Camp.

The bus is only half full,
Yet the smell of Religion is...
Miraculous.
The smell of Our Lord, Jesus Christ.

The two hip vicars,
Both young,
Shepherd their flock into their seats,
Legally reminding them of the seatbelts they must wear.

Would Jesus not save them if we were to crash?

The organiser, sat at the back,
Is subjected to the torture of the mad youth,
Yelling their devotion to the Lord,
By stopping up 'til one and discussing Capital Punishment.

And lo!
The ferry looms nigh.
The Religious People pile off,
Eager to praise God over an overpriced cup of coffee.

The angry Godlings rush to the deck,
Smoke inhaling and exhaling through their prayer-holes,
Continuing their earlier discussion,
About staying up 'til one and hanging paedos.

The atheist, the organiser and the father (non-clerical),
Our third character,
Gently perambulate towards the bar,
Like the beginning of some xenophobic joke.

And talk turns to the mad youth,
The hip vicars,
The odd couple driving the bus,
Making deals on who is going to swap seats.

The atheist, having sat next to a tasty girl on the way,
Is not inclined to give his seat up,
And the father has come back from camping, and needs his rest.
So the organiser draws the hypothetical short straw.

Fitting.

In what seems like mere seconds,
The announcement comes,
via the new improved crackly tannoy,
to return to the coach.

And now begins the slog.
The long, arduous part of the journey.
The part where hours seem like minutes,
And minutes seem like hours,
Like some retarded board game involving a timer.

Pick whichever one you don't like.

The part where you aren't sure whether
You're awake,
Or Asleep.
The part where eyelids
Droop,
And heads roll,
Onto uncomfortable
Neighbours
Shoulders...

Zzzzzzzzzz.