The obvious poem

The proof isn't in the pudding,
something homogeneous -
or so they wish,
if only a dash of
thickening agent
could resolve this sordid mess.

He isn't real, you know,
capitalized letter or otherwise,
just a curl of starch,
wispy as smoke,
to metabolize and speed
the rush to judgement (day).

"What happens when we die?"
they ask, afraid the answer
will be exactly as
they think it is.
Instead, the House
builds them all a paradise.

It's a matter of ancient fear,
handed down by the first,
and as the species
has clearly evolved,
the coping mechanism of record
lacks most sorely, still. 

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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
St. Vincent, Laughing With A Mouthful of Blood