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THE WISE AND FOOLISH VIRGINS
Though few girls die as virgins now,
And fewer still their wedding vow
Will ever make devout, demure,
Unbedded, chaste, naive and pure.
And though the white that’s worn with pride
By nearly every modern bride
More than likely signifies
Cant, hypocrisy and lies.
I’d ask you all with joy, not stricture
To call to mind, imagine, picture
A bride who makes her stately way
Upon her long-planned wedding day
Resplendent in the whitest white,
Along a path in sunshine bright
Towards a little country church.
From a nearby gum-tree’s perch
The cockatoos appear to scream
That brides in white aren’t what they seem.,
While crickets trill their descant shrill
And as the bridal party fill
The tiny porch with happy giggles,
And flower girl and page boy wriggles.
A bride who’d rather not offend
Must choose as bridesmaid every friend!
Though this can mean she ends with more
Than she, perhaps, had bargained for.
Today, demure and blue of dress,
No less than ten of them process
Slowly in before the bride ,
It’s hard to get them all inside.
The aisle’s so short the church so small,
There’s little room to move at all.
But all goes well, they all fit in
The cockatoo’s atrocious din
Is blotted out, and all but drowned,
By a wheezing, groaning sound.
It’s Wagner’s wedding march perhaps,
With here a pause and there a lapse.
The old harmonium’s badly played
By the district’s last old maid
In twenty minutes all is done
The bride and groom are now made one,
Confetti, kisses, petals, rice,
A laugh or two, then in a trice
The happy bridal group’s forsaken
Is left to have some photos taken,
As guests and family, one and all
Cross a paddock to the hall.
There a band and lots of booze
Will lighten spirits and amuse,
Until the bridal couple come.
Whereupon things start to hum.
For once the boring talks are done with
Then the guests can have their fun with
Anyone they can detach
Disentangle, seize or snatch,
Charm, entice away, allure
From either spouse or paramour
As the evening turns to morning
And magpies herald daytime’s dawning.
The bridesmaids, each and every one
Join with gusto in this fun,
For what a waste and what a pity
If unattached and very pretty
Girls so vital to proceedings
Hearken to old-maidish pleadings,
For caution, care, sobriety,
Refinement or propriety!
Now five of them are worldly wise
The other five are otherwise!
The worldly wise, adopting tactics
Involving rubber prophylactics.
Can leave the wedding unalarmed
If not intact, at least unharmed.
The foolish five who don’t prepare
In such a manner, might well fare,
When at last the party’s done
Rather worse from all the fun.
There’s just a chance they’ll find, alas
That pregnancies have come to pass!
And thus the wise, the ones who win
Are those who’re well prepared for sin
Whereas the fools, the five who lose
Are those naive, who quite refuse
To be prepared and so perhaps
Are left with babies in their laps!
It all at first seems oddly wrong,
But on reflection, not for long
Because the unprepared, you see,
The ones who foolish seemed to be
They were prepared! Prepared to take
The risk of making a mistake
It’s saying “No!”, not prophylactics
That constitute their risky tactics,
And this, though far from worldly wise
Just might be wise to heavenly eyes.
The foolishness of God being wiser,
(So says St Paul, a sure adviser)
Than the wisdom of mere man
AN OLD CHESTNUT RE-ROASTED
Henry Tudor, England's king,
The one who split with Rome,
Summoned once to Hampton Court,
His Thames-side royal home,
Bishop Charles of Bangor, perhaps
A papist in disguise
And whom he wished therefore to test,
To quiz and catechise.
The bishop, not a learned man,
This ordeal faced with dread.
Knowing that a feeble showing
Would mean he'd lose his head.
So in despair he went to see
His brilliant, learned brother,
A monk for wit and learning matched
In Europe by no other.
"We look so very much alike,"
Remarked the Bishop's brother,
"That King nor anyone can tell
Either from the other."
"So I, not you, will see the king
To face his catechism
And thus perhaps we'll foil the man
Who's brought our Church to schism!"
And so to Hampton Court the monk
Made his prayerful way,
To face his vengeful, cruel monarch
One dark and gloomy day
"I've three good questions for you, Bishop,"
Said the King, directly,
"You'll lose your head unless they're answered
Promptly and correctly."
"First, how deep's the ocean, Bishop?
Answer fast, don't stall!"
"Easy," said the Bishop's brother,
"A stone's throw deep, that's all."
Grudgingly the king accepted
This answer as correct.
Surprised indeed to find a Bishop
Of wit and intellect!
"Second, who's the greatest man
Who's ever lived on earth?"
"Easy. Jesus Christ, of course,
Whom Mary brought to birth!"
This question, Henry, eaten up
With egotistic cancer,
Had wanted to be given, of course,
A sycophantic answer!
And so his third and final question
He asked in wrath and rage
"What's in my mind? What am I thinking?
Bishop wise and sage?"
"That's easy," said the Bishop's brother
"You think that I'm another!
That I am Bishop Charles of Bangor
But I am just his brother."
BETTING ON THE ARCHBISHOP
In a snooty Melbourne Club
Idly bored and yawning
Sat two retired business men
At ten one Monday morning.
The only other occupant
Read the Melbourne "Age"
Totally absorbed it seemed
In every single page.
Said business man to business man,
"That fellow over there
I'm sure's the Anglican Archbishop,
Though it doesn't do to stare!
"That he should be a fellow member
Of this exclusive club
Surprises me, for how can he
Afford the mighty sub?"
"That's not the Anglican Archbishop,"
Said the other man,
"He looks far more intelligent
Than any bishop can!"
"It is, I tell you," said the first,
"I'll bet you fifty dollars,
For I can sniff the clergy out
Without or with their collars!"
They argued fiercely for a while,
Each stubbornly one-sided
Until to ask the man himself
They both of them decided.
They tossed a coin to settle who
Should rise to go and ask.
He who thought the man the bishop
Won the dubious task.
And so he rose and made his way
Across the room and said:
"Aren't you the Anglican Archbishop?"
The stranger raised his head
And shouted in a vehement voice
Both evil and malign,
"Mind your own vile, bloody business
You nosy, nasty swine!"
The business man returned, sat down,
Amazed but not undone.
He said, "The blighter wouldn't tell me!"
So neither of them won!
FR AMADEUS BEWARE
In Mother Church, a much loved friend,
Perhaps the hardest thing to comprehend
Is how so many muddling mediocrities
And tiresome, talentless nonentities
Rise to "Venerable" dominance
Or even "Very Reverend" prominence!
Who, insecure upon so high a perch,
Can't cope with wilful talent in their Church,
Are jealous of ability and flair,
Applauding only those who never dare
To question, query, challenge, answer back,
Promoting none except the sycophantic hack!
Yet I suppose it's ever been the same,
That nearly all professions play this game,
Talent by the talentless aborted,
Achievement and success demeaned or thwarted....
Fr Amadeus, beware and wary
Of envious Archdeacon Salieri!
SOZZLED DAFT ON NECTAR
Five years a buzzing busy bee
Sozzled daft on nectar
I've thrived, well hived, have stung, been stung
At Ararat, your Rector.
Through God's good grace I've loved the place
Have buzzed about with pleasure.
Its bluestone church especially
I hold most dear and treasure.
The Rectory's old and can be cold,
It's worn, but also spacious.
It stands substantial, solid, sound,
A bit run down, but gracious.
And Ararat's a pleasing town,
Its climate brisk and keen.
Its atmosphere is bright and clear,
Its streets well treed and clean.
All of this I'd sorely miss
Were I to leave tomorrow,
Its people more though I'd deplore
To leave. I'd go in sorrow.
I'd miss its "clients", gaol-birds, slobs,
Not just its brisk, keen cold,
Its ratbags, yobs, its well-heeled snobs
And also friends untold.
And Father John who soldiers on
No matter who's his Rector,
Ranting fundamentalist
Or smoking genuflector!
And also Lil, John's marvellous spouse
And partner archetypal
His loyal wife, who all her life
Has been God's true disciple.
My wardens three mean much to me
Gavin, David, Howard.
Their care, concern, support and help
Have never flagged or soured.
Financial matters in the main
I've held in great disdain,
Driving Moira first, then Sybil,
Our Treasurers, insane.
Joan Talbot, Secretary of Council
Of kind and open mind.
To all my faults and foibles
Has been humanely blind.
Council members, past and present,
Like Collins, Wiltshire, Crook
Have many times my sins forgiven
And let me off the hook.
And Harricks, Jackson, Millear, Bullock
Norman-Bail and Madley,
Bonsacks, Newsomes, Croft and Wells,
I'd leave them all most sadly.
My strong desire to start a choir
When first as priest I came here
I'm most surprised we've realised,
I hold it very dear.
It challenges, brings lots of fun
Giggles, belly laughs and groans
Eustace, Gavin, George and Nick
Jenny, Kris, two Joans,
Kristy, Cathy, Leila, Marg,
Wendy, Jamie, Rod
All lift our hearts to play their parts
In worshipping our God.
Jean Crebbin's been an inspiration,
Salty, cultured, witty,
Progressively conservative,
Determined, strong and gritty.
Elsie Beggs is more progressive
Than many half her age
Her active, kind, inquiring mind
Is shrewd, judicious, sage.
Mrs Preece and Mrs Wigan
Have sparkling fun-filled eyes
The sunny sisters, Mrs Sherlock
And Mrs Millear, likewise.
Jean Rogers, Rita Roadknight too
Are faithful as can be,
Tom Lewis too has been true blue
Full of bonhomie.
The servers under Tara's guidance
The Youth Club under Rick
Have faithfully fulfilled their tasks
And rarely missed a trick.
Peg Moorfoot who's our sacristan
Is another of my fancies
Birds and kids and animals
She loves, like good St Francis
Kelvin Turner's melancholic,
Mordant, caustic wit,
Reg Wiltshire's eccentricity
Have pleased this Pommie twit.
Emma, Shane and Penny Harricks
Have more than compensated
For all the vandalising yobs
I've chased, reviled and hated.
I cannot mention everyone
Without going on all night
Too many of my parish folk
Have given me delight.
Which is why I'm on a high
Sozzled daft on nectar
Although a far too buzy bee
At Ararat your rector.
The nectar that inebriates me
Is love, support and care
Of which you've given much to me
More than you're aware.
It's this I'd miss above all else
Were I to leave tomorrow
For folk who've loved and cared for us
We tend to leave in sorrow.
But now I'm sounding mawkish, trite,
Down right sentimental
Something I consider vile,
Almost excremental!
So let me say, in no dismay,
That though I've thrived, well hived,
I've also stung, been stung, among
You all since I arrived.
So thank you all for five good years
At Ararat as Rector
Of stinging well and being stung,
While sozzled daft on nectar.
EASTER HOPE FOR POOR ARARAT(circa 1992)
Ararat's a lovely town
With streets that amble up and down,
That wind and wander round about,
Here and there and in and out.
It nestles on the southern side
Of great Victoria's Great Divide
Its hills abound with kangaroos
And offer long and lovely views
But what a sad and sorry state
Seems now its melancholy fate!
Shrunken, shrivelled, down and out,
Abandoned, lost and knocked about.
Houses everywhere for sale
Including monstrous Aradale.
Who would want to settle down
In such a shrunken, down-cast town?
Its railway yards once hummed with life
Until the economic knife
That spoils and wrecks and penny pinches
Cut those yards to piddling inches!
Aradale as well has closed
But not as first we all supposed
Because so old an institution
Required updated substitution,
But rather, most of us would say,
Because it seemed the easy way,
To wield that economic knife
That bleeds away a city's life.
At least its sister institution,
Achieved updated substitution!
The old forensic centre closed
But was replaced. We all supposed
Forever. And at hefty cost,
So here at least all wasn't lost!
But no, this too now's in its death throes.
It's end has come. It has to close!
The churches too fight to survive
Are far more dead than they're alive.
Even pentecostal churches
In Ararat fall off their perches!
Whereas elsewhere it's said they grow,
Or so their leaders like to crow.
Here too then Ararat's unique,
Sadly different, odd, a freak.
But lets not only weep and wail
There's still at least a thriving gaol,
That gives employment, brings in cash
And strange dependents, drugs and hash.
And Chalambar, the gambling hole,
Has sold its good-sport, fair-go soul
To bring us pokie hope and madness
To blow away dismay and sadness.
There's always hope! The tide can turn!
Disaster can be left astern,
For Ararat's a lovely town
With streets that amble up and down.
Nestling on the southern side
Of great Victoria's Great Divide
It's ringed with eucalyptused hills,
Its beauty hearts with pleasure fills.
And from its present dereliction
Despair, dismay and crucifixion
Hope can grow and restoration,
Joy, redemption and elation.
For gaols and pokies, nails and cross
Despair and population loss
Dismay, depression, and dejection
Faith holds, will lead to resurrection.
RECTOR'S REPORT 1995
In July a Rector gives
An "Annual Report"
Of usually a dull, immodest
Wordy, dreary sort.
Pretending that his parish grows
And goes from strength to strength,
A lie the which to propagate
He'll go to any length.
In which himself he justifies
Applauds, defends, excuses,
Laying any blame that's due
On others he accuses.
But he's a paragon of virtue,
Called by God to come
To be deferred to, preach and teach
(And idle on his bum).
Reports like this are not my scene.
Blunt truth I much prefer
As anyone who reads my verse
Will readily infer.
Here goes then! In the year that's past
Our parish didn't grow.
We're where we were this time last year.
Or very nearly so.
This isn't any body's fault
Unless of course it's mine,
For I have been, an arrogant
And less than fervent swine.
I rise each morning very early,
My prayers to say contrive,
Opening up our lovely church
Just after half past five,
But there, at prayer, I often find
I wallow in self-doubt,
Or worse I scribble evil verse
Instead of being devout.
The hours I spend perfecting sermons
So elegant of phrase,
Are spent as much for Neaum's glory
As for his Maker's praise.
My pew sheets with their jokes and quotes
Are made to make folk think
Of God! But also that I'm clever,
For which, of course, they stink.
My visits to the sick and dying
Spring often from compassion.
But sometimes of reluctant duty
There's far too good a ration.
Teaching fools in schools is fun,
But only as I do it.
In prospect and in preparation,
I hate the task and rue it.
Although I love my faithful flock
Value and admire them
Should they, lukewarm, desert their Church
I want to roast and fry them,
Strike them from the parish roll
For Laodiceanism.
Frustrated rage is very much
An Andrew Neaumism!
Very far from organised,
A great procrastinater,
I push aside essential tasks
To do, too late, much later.
That most of you can tolerate
So fallible a swine,
Indicates that all of you
Might share these sins of mine!
That I'm acceptable as priest
Because I'm one of you,
No haloed saint without a taint,
But just a sinner too.
A better priest I'm bound to be
If one both like and for you.
It means my sins and faults amount,
In their way, to virtue!
DESPERATION
The Rector of a little parish
Its tiny congregation lavish
In word not deed, in praise not cash,
Was tempted once to something rash!
His verger, taciturn and dim,
He called inside to talk with him,
About a cunning little scheme
That made his eyes with mischief gleam.
"On Sunday next, my dear man,
We'll put in place this cunning plan.
That should my tight-pursed paltry flock
From stinginess disturb and rock.
"I'll preach a sermon full of fire
Threatening hell and brimstone dire,
And as I shout and punch the air,
Grimace, glower, groan and glare,
"You must in the belfry sit,
To wait for your important bit,
With by your side some oily rags
Made from cotton flour bags.
"As my voice I raise up higher
And like Elisha call down fire
To burn the sinful in the pew
Those words must be to you a cue
"To set on fire the oily rags
Made from cotton flour bags
And waft down clouds of evil smoke
To terrify my simple folk
"And make them think my threat's occurred
That God my fiery sermon's heard,
That flaming judgement's on its way,
God's wrath has come and come to stay!
"When such a wonder they have seen
They'll never evermore be mean!
They'll give their all in perturbation
Terrified of God's damnation!"
Next Sunday then, their plan is set!
The church is full (but still in debt).
The Rector's ranting rises higher,
Calling down from heaven fire.
He raves and rants, he sobs and chants,
He roars and shouts, he puffs and pants,
All to call forth and evoke
That cloud of black and evil smoke!
But naught transpires! The smoke won't come!
It's very, very worrisome!
No heavenly wrath or fire descends!
No thunder clap the silence rends!
He tries again. He gives them more,
Threats and shouts and roars galore.
Like Elisha, how he tries
To call down fire from the skies!
But still no heavenly fire descends!
No thunder clap the silence rends!
This is not damnation's hour!
Instead, the verger from the tower,
Is heard to groan by everyone
"It's no use Father, we're undone!
All our hopes the devil snatches!
"The cat has pissed upon my matches!"
AN UNLIKELY TRINITY
(Written for an ABC Interview taped on 6.3.97
Broadcast 9.3.97)
Speaking economically
That is, acronymicly,
The ABC and C of E
Are very, very dear to me.
For both, you see, if seems to me,
Prefer by far integrity
And excellence and quality
To vulgar popularity.
And so together, quite implausibly,
They're linked, unlikely twins, in me.
But both are being urged, today
To take a very different way,
And join the hectic, frantic race
Dictated by the market-place;
To go with the commercial flow
And let their great tradition go.
To up the ratings, fill the pews,
Pander, flatter and amuse
The common herd, the milling mob,
Sheila, yahoo, nerd and yob;
On radio with soap or slime.
In church with puerile nursery rhyme,
Instead of sweetly edifying,
Challenging, electrifying,
With Occam's Razor, Science Shows,
Or Gibbons hymns and Cranmer's prose
Compass, Rumpole, Simulcasts,
Ancient saints' days, feasts and fasts,
The God Who Sings, The Bill, Frontline,
Plainsong psalms, Communion wine,
May both my acronymic loves
Linked in me like Lovey doves,
Hold their co-inciding courses
Resisting evil market forces,
And so the two, with me as three
Remain a loving trinity.
FOR SUE YOUNG ON HER
SIXTIETH BIRTHDAY
The age of certainties and fixities
Ended with the glorious sixties.
Then Suzie Young was young indeed
Then all the young at heart were freed
From old taboos and prohibitions,
Constraints, controls and inhibitions.
Then how good to be alive,
And dancing to the Dave Clarke Five,
Jimmy Hendryx, Beatles, Stones
On crackling groovy gramophones
While flower-powered and gently stoned
Free in love, testosteroned.
Glorious days to dwell upon,
But only in the mind, they’re gone!
The sixties though, for Suzie Young,
Haven’t gone, they’ve just begun.
But still they promise liberation,
Freedom, joyful jubilation,
Old restrictions disappearing
And gloomy dark horizons clearing.
For teaching’s stress and mess and ruckus
She’s left behind to younger suckers.
From mewling, puking kids she’s freed,
There’s sometimes time to think and read.
Her children now are all grown-ups
Less pains in gut than minor hiccups
So teenage tantrums, moods and rages
Have not disturbed her ears for ages.
And love still dominates the life
Of Anne the happy sixties wife
For husband Andrew loves her still,
With heart and mind and soul and will,
No beery, bulbous-bellied wreck,
Is he, nor foolish pain-in-neck!
As when he wed, so now the same,
Young in heart and looks and name.
So Suzie dear, it seems to me
Your sixties simply have to be,
As shown by these my simple rhymes
The dawning of the best-of-all-times.
THE DEATH OF A TRUE-BLUE CATHOLIC
Two mates one windy night and cold
Who long on beer had celebrated,
Left their pub and homeward rolled,
Plastered, bombed, intoxicated.
A bitter wind that promised trouble
Blears their eyes and chills their bones,
With beads of moisture jewels their stubble,
Round dingy buildings whines and groans.
They staggered down the sodden street
When from behind them loomed a car
Which side-swiped Gary off his feet
To leave him bleeding on the tar.
He lay their gasping, stupefied
As Blue, his mate, help up his head.
He coughed and gurgled as he tried
To speak, and then at last he said:
“I’ve had it Blue, for sure I’m dying.
I’m heading for the other side.
I’m finished mate. It’s no use lying.”
Though Blue, his trusty cobber, tried:
“Don’t give up for God’s sake Gary,
The ambulance is on its way.
They’ll fix you up as quick as Larry,
You’ll live to drink another day.”
“Bull-shit Blue,” replied his mate.
“Call for me a man of prayer.
St Peter’s waiting at the gate,
I’m almost gone, I’m nearly there.”
So call for me the Salvo man,
To pray my booze and sins away,
He’ll come as quickly as he can,
He loves a chance to have a pray.
“But Gary, you’re a bloody Catholic,
Not a wowser Salvo man,
So let me call for Father Patrick
Seamus, Sean O’Halloran.”
“For God’s sake no! Not Father Patrick,
Don’t be bloody ignorant!
For though, for sure, I’m true-blue Catholic
And not a bloody Protestant,
“That means, though dying filled with piss,
An evil, whoring, wicked sod,
I’d never on a night like this,
Call out from bed a priest of God.”
DIVES AND LAZARUS
A rich, retired, ex-socialist
Australian head of state
Abandoned left-wing principles
And his wife to fate,
And metamorphosed overnight.
Became an entrepreneur
An arty weekend, dinner-party,
La-di-da poseur.
The poor could get no nearer to him
Than his mansion’s gate
The workers he’d once backed and fought for
Now he seemed to hate,
Because he’d signed up with the bosses,
Joined the rich man’s club,
Frequenting snobby cocktail bars
In preference to the pub.
His former mates he never ever
Let between his gates.
Especially one called Lazarus,
In grim and dire straits
Who’d twice attempted suicide,
Unable now to cope,
With losing his employment, health,
And wife, and wits, and hope.
This man, a shaking, broken beggar,
Short of breath and wheezy
Dirty, smelly, lousy, scruffy,
Scabrous, lame and sleazy,
Every day from dawn to dusk
Begged and whined and pleaded
By the rich mans gate for food
And any cash he needed.
The rich man looked the other way
As chauffeur-driven fast
Through the monstrous gates each day
Poor Lazarus he passed
Far worse, he set his dogs upon him,
Wild of eye, unmuzzled,
Was puzzled when they didn’t bite,
But whimpered, licked and nuzzled.
One gloomy day in early May
Death opened wide its door
To both the rich ex-socialist
And Lazarus the poor.
And through death’s door they both found more
Than they had bargained for,
Roles reversed, the last as first,
The rich folk now the poor.
Loved and valued Lazarus
Had all that he desired
Was lauded, feted, loved, applauded
And generally admired.
He blossomed in the company
Of Abraham, Isaiah,
St Francis, Mary Magdalene
And poor old Jeremiah.
The rich man, known as Dives though,
The turn-coat entrepreneur,
The arty weekend dinner-party
La-di-da poseur,
Shrivelled in the company
Of evil Jereboam,
Hitler, Stalin, Mao Tse Tung
And stupid Rehoboam.
The gulf called wealth divided them
Before they both had died,
The gulf called justice did the same
When on the other side.
Across the which, the man once rich
Now deigned to cast his eye
And there he saw the man once poor
Now blessed and set on high.
He called to him for some relief
From hellish, burning heat,
For just a nip, a tiny sip
Of water cold and sweet.
Discovering though, that once you’ve died
Then justice must be done,
So Dives has to suffer
And Lazarus have fun.
Whereupon there came to Dives
A semi selfless thought,
He’d have his brothers warned unless
They too, like him, were caught.
To politicians far more vital
Than service to their nation
Are family, fortune, perquisites
And superannuation,
A visit to his family then
By someone resurrected
From the dead, like Lazarus
He hoped and half expected
Might teach his brothers to include
In future plans and goals
As well as mansions for their bodies
Mansions for their souls.
But mansions on the other side
Are built of love and grace,
It’s not the self, but other folk,
Who there take pride of place.
So Abraham told Dives that
His mammon loving brothers
Would never heed or understand
This talk of love for others.
Indeed, if God himself was cruelly
Killed then resurrected
By such as them the truth would go
Completely undetected.
TREASURE IN A FIELD
In the land of mountebanks
Where the miser mammon rules,
Our sacred buildings are the banks
The faithful, money-maddened fools.
Salvation is a lotto win
The Gospel teaches “take” not “give”
Generosity’s a sin
To grab and keep is how to live.
Honour lies in what you’ve got,
There’s nothing worse to trouble you
Than loss of ocean going yacht
Or gleaming B.M.W.
Saints are twerps, devoid of honour,
Wealthy, witless, glitterati,
Blessed Mary’s now “Madonna”
Graceless, narcissistic, tarty.
Poverty and unemployment
Constitute the worst of sins.
It’s only cash that brings enjoyment
Wealth alone fulfilment wins.
And mammon rules the Church as well,
The poor aren’t now considered blessed.
To have but little, that is hell,
To have a lot’s by far the best.
For churchmen nearly all, alas
Live in double-incomed ease
Are resolutely middle class
And pray from fat and fleshy knees.
So when the churches take the lead
In criticising poverty,
Denouncing governments for greed
For causing want and paucity,
The odour of hypocrisy
Can seem particularly rank
The bishop, like a pharisee,
Has eye balls clogged and blocked with plank,
That blind should lead the blind defies
The parable’s advice you’ll find.
Like pulling specks from others’ eyes
When you yourself are more than blind.
With humps of wealth upon his back
The comic camel’s present too,
Church leaders have the happy knack
Of oozing, squeezing, twisting through
The needle’s eye to heavenly leisure
Thus so to Mammon Christians yield
Mistaking parabolic treasure
For muck of mammon in a field.
LINES FOR MARJORIE GLANVILLE
ON HER SIXTIETH BIRTHDAY
As relentlessly the clocks
Have ticked their ticks and tocked their tocks,
Marking Marjie's passing years,
Her joys and sorrows, fun and tears,
We note a pleasing paradox,
She's not grown old, for all life's knocks,
Remaining full of vim and vigour
Young at heart and fine of figure;
Piano teaching, church bell ringing,
Organ playing, choir singing,
Versifying, gardening, weeding,
Decorating cakes and reading,
Taxi driven, averse to driving,
But not at all to scuba diving.
She also dances very well,
And talks and talks and talks pell-mell.
Love of God her life imbues,
She's strong of faith and strong of views.
She'll never sink into senility,
Though sunk already in felinity,
Which means, in case you haven't guessed,
She's cat besotted and obsessed.
We love her dearly and admire her,
And wish we'd half the sparks that fire her.
Congratulations Marjie dear
A sixty-year old without peer.