There is a vicar from Chelsea
Who alas is not very wealthy
Often he dines on communion wine
And curried bat from the belfry

He lights a lot of incense
To hide his flatulence
He gets a bit high
Perhaps that is why
His sermons never make sense



--The vicar gets his knickers in a twist--

The old church roof had seen better days
The pressing need was a serious fund-raise
So the vicar abseiled down the tower
As the village watched by the graves and flowers

With a flurry his cassock flew up in the air
Shocking pink he wore under there
Flapping around it covered his face
As he dangled there in embarrassed disgrace

Someone called the fire brigade
A turntable ladder came to his aid
When at last they got him down
Humbled and grateful he kissed the ground

I traversed the solar
plexus of your lies
abseiled the craggy mid-drift
of long forgotten repentance
passing through your belly button
of hidden desires
and emerged
smelling of not-roses
from the crevice of your denials.
My surveyors report summarised thus -
(You're) **rotten through and through...

The soul felt it was light as bees
As it was relieved and alive
Looking into a relief of hellish rocks and whorling heights
Periodic clouds cleared the doubts as I abseiled blind

THE FURNITURE RUNS AWAY TO THE CIRCUS


The furniture has decided
to run away from home.

Yep, just...up sticks &...gone.

The bed threw itself
out the open window.

The sofa abseiled
down the south side

of our newly painted
sky blue house.

The tables and chairs
have legged it.

The piano left
by the back door.

I stand in
the naked room.

Only a stool
has stood by me.

A three legged stool
I have had since a child.

"Stool pigeon!"
the other chairs hissed at it.

Now I feel King Lear like
with only this fool of a stool

for company.

My mind a blasted heath.

"Why...?" I demand
". . .why!"

The stool hasn't got the heart
to tell me.