The lilting hiss of the curate’s kiss
along his words of wisdom;
God only knows why they talk like this
when proclaim the keys to The Kingdom.
A two and six postal order
and a tuppenny stamp, please,
hushes the vicar to the counter.
The football pools, he decides upon his knees,
and bets the numbered hymns in order,
with a promise that “just four little aways?”
would win his eternal praise,
curate to creator.
Such a gentle voice, a hand upon your shoulder,
but so out of place in the supermarket isle,
that we all say “off his trolley he is”,
slightly mouldier than a Stilton smile;
because, now that life is so puerile,
that chip upon his shoulder
has turned into a boulder.
For God’s sake man!
Talk like a human being.
It cuts no ice, when you talk so nice,
you’ll never send the money lenders reeling.
Talk to me, talk to me,
for God’s sake talk to me;
not in condescension;
but scream and shout,
spit it out, sputter in the tears of Christ,
and reflect upon their condensation.