a memo: br br for all of you whom the Fates forsook br who worked so hard your soulfingers hurt br deep in the bowels of the Mother Church br huddling together as Her foundations shook br br quoting a Policy no man could possibly pervert br thru centuries of greed and holy war br condemning rock music and the liquor store br then killing the heathens you couldn't convert br br you sent your prayers up to the Very Top Floor br slaving away with no card to punch br begging for manna on which to munch br imploring for help with your Divine Chore br br genuflection may have bent your backs in a hunch br but your supplications have been overlooked br the fax machine is off the hook br and the Boss is out to lunchbr br Rev. Dr. A.