The Star of North Road

This star is made not
of burning hydrogen.
Instead it is composed
of Tin foil and a
Jaffa Cake box.
Not through the desert but down
Cobbled streets it guides
Drunken revellers (not weary magi).
Who come not from the far east but from
Some living room,
up some bailey side-street.
The star shines dimly, dances,
(Flops to one side)
And comes to rest. Wise men
Would find this place stranger still than
any animal shed. But the pilgrims
Enter, nonetheless, and pay their £3
Repects in homage to the new-born king.

And yet He is not there.
It is no place for Him.
Only in abstraction, only in name is this a celebration of his birth.
Whilst filthy, too, this place is far removed;
There are animals, of sorts, and singing, but not that of angels. and here the virgins stand in corners, palms sweating.
The star falls to the dancefloor where
It it is trodden in.
And we sin,
And sin,
And sin.
In pseudo-honour
Of Him.