"vicar" poems
He often would ask us
That, when he died,
After playing so many
To their last rest,
If out of us any
Should here abide,
And it would not task us,
We would with our lutes
Play over him
By his grave-brim
The psalm he liked best—
The one whose sense suits
“Mount Ephraim”—
And perhaps we should seem
To him, in Death’s dream,
Like the seraphim.
As soon as I knew
That his spirit was gone
I thought this his due,
And spoke thereupon.
“I think”, said the vicar,
“A read service quicker
Than viols out-of-doors
In these frosts and hoars.
That old-fashioned way
Requires a fine day,
And it seems to me
It had better not be.”
Hence, that afternoon,
Though never knew he
That his wish could not be,
To get through it faster
They buried the master
Without any tune.
But ’twas said that, when
At the dead of next night
The vicar looked out,
There struck on his ken
Thronged roundabout,
Where the frost was graying
The headstoned grass,
A band all in white
Like the saints in church-glass,
Singing and playing
The ancient stave
By the choirmaster’s grave.
Such the tenor man told
When he had grown old.
12.7k
The vicar's knickers look so fine
As they hang upon the line.
Flapping wildly in the breeze,
They're as sassy as you please.
They used to be a shade of grey,
But on the line, in the light of day,
They sparkle white as they hang about.
Even Mr. Clean would scream and shout.
People in the street stop and stare
As they admire the vicar's underwear.
Hanging there for all to see,
They seem to cry, "Look at me!"
The gathering crowd gives a sigh
When the vicar's knickers seem to fly
As they dance and twist upon the line,
Looking white and clean, and oh so fine.
Inside the house the vicar pleads,
"Dear wife, some underwear I need.
Without my knickers I cannot say
My sermon in the church today."
The vicar's wife has had enough
Of viewing her husband in the buff,
As he searches for another pair
Of sparkling, clean, white underwear.
"I know where to find a pair!
They're on the line, those underwear,"
Says the vicar's wife with a grin.
"I'll just go out and fetch them in."
The poor man waits and says a prayer
And hopes she finds those underwear.
He really wants to finish dressing
And go to church and say the blessing.
She snatches them from off the line
Where they've hung and looked so fine.
The crowd watches her take them down,
Those knickers, the whitest in all the town.
They'll have to come another day
To gawk and watch those knickers play.
The vicar needs that elusive pair
Of sparkling, clean, white underwear.
The vicar's just as pleased as punch
Because he had a sneaking hunch
He'd never see that last clean pair,
And he'd have nothing else to wear.
Now he's dressed and ready for the day,
And he can go to church and kneel and pray
Because he's wearing a lovely pair
Of sparkling, clean, white underwear.
Mar 10, 2012
Mar 10, 2012 at 2:28 PM UTC
Through every nook and every cranny
The wind blew in on poor old Granny
Around her knees, into each ear
(And up nose as well, I fear)
All through the night the wind grew worse
It nearly made the vicar curse
The top had fallen off the steeple
Just missing him (and other people)
It blew on man, it blew on beast
It blew on nun, it blew on priest
It blew the wig off Auntie *****
But most of all, it blew on Granny!
6k
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
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 3:18 AM UTC
There was a pirate who came from afar
Who sank his ship for a h'penny o' tar
He had a scar on his cheek,
Gold in his teeth
And like Prabhu, a thing for the noir
There was a vicar from Kent
Who gave up religion for lent
He enjoyed a spree
Of being un-holy
Nobody knows where he went
For the tourists to impress
She wore traditional dress
She liked the grass skirt
And the flowery shirt
But the coconut bra caused distress
One of the tourists she knew
Was really enjoying the view
He bought her a drink
Tickled her pink
And said may I remove it for you?
The limerick man was on top
He was writing such a lot
The barrel he dredged
He lost his edge
And didn't know when to stop
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 12:17 PM UTC
Again the time has come for all to gather round the fire,
"That time again", we say, while we assess the money drained,
The looks of disappointment from the ***** with stupid attire,
And truth will leak from drink fuelled mouths, with need to be restrained.
Your mum is singing drunkenly, while flirting with the vicar,
And dad is out the back sneaking a joint with cousin victor,
The dog is ******* aunt Jemima's artificial leg,
And someone just had a turkey fart,the kind that makes you sicker.
The christmas lights have fused again, so grandad's on the roof,
Sheer will power keeps him up there,and of course, martini vermouth,
Grandma's lost her teeth,and someone screams near the eggnog,
They're sent flying across the room and land in the fire on a log,
You feel your patience slipping as the pandamoniem mounts,
With thankless moans of "Oh well, its the ****** thought that counts",
And not forgetting Glenn, invited by your mum, but why?
So you and he can marry, and honeymoon in Hawaii.
With no idea that Glenn is gay, i guess the joke's on her,
I mean, what straight guy wears his y fronts entirely made from fur??
The night draws to a close,as bitter, crying family leave,
And relief is all too short, as there's still new years eve!!!
Dec 20, 2009
Dec 20, 2009 at 7:54 AM UTC
Church!
I feel like if I walked into a church
then I'd probably burst into flames.
She said.
Well, maybe you should repent
of your sinful way of living,
accept Jesus into your heart
then go out and love the poor,
as the Lord taught us to do.
Replied the Rent Boy
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 7:50 AM UTC
There was a vicar from Fife
Who never took a wife
Instead he toyed
With a choir boy
And buggered him up for life
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
There was a vicar from Crewe
Whose congregation were few
To make amends he brought in his hens
And they all lined up on a pew
Then he compiled an avian choir
(For the singing voice of the hens was dire
And the only song the cockerel knew
Was cock-a-doodle-do)
The church fell silent as we heard
The Lord is my Shepherd from the minor bird
The vicar invited us to pray
And we got the Lords Prayer from the African grey
There followed a rendition of psalm thirty four
Performed without fault from the tenor macaw
The parakeets squawked and scratched their fleas
As they jumped up and down on the ***** keys
The vicar was thrilled it was going so well
The geese gave a honk as they pulled on the bell
But then there appeared right at the back
An evil sparrowhawk poised to attack
Calamity reigned inside the church
The African grey fell off his perch
The first to escape was the tenor macaw
As fast as he could through the open door
The chickens shrieked and went home in a flap
The minor bird had a heart attack
The geese walked away back to their pen
And the church fell silent once again
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 1:28 PM UTC
How many millions have you got
I expect you lost count
It's a hellava lot
Not forgetting the splendid yacht
An artist scans a landscape
A comic distills a joke
A shopper looks for a parking space
An addict drags on a smoke
I do what I want one thing at a time
Cumulus nimbus are flying high
Follow my nose with a healthy dose
Of common sense and instinct combined
A vicar rehearses a favourite prayer
A sailor waits on a breeze
A writer sees a story there
A woodsman searches the trees
A rich man still believes he is poor
A lost and lonely is thinking if only
Patting the chair and tapping the floor
We all go chasing a bit of fun
Fulfilment comes in different ways
Like writing a poem every day
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 3:24 PM UTC
We are Manchester. The City, The place, we’re hospitable people with a smile on our face. You can beat us, mistreat us, and blow us to hell. We have had it all before and we don’t dwell. We’re the northern powerhouse of the northwestern elite, Where the Geordie's, The Scousers, The Yorkshire’s retreat. The premier League, The Roses Cricket, The Heineken Cup Is a one way ticket. United and City two football teams with stadiums full, bursting at the seams.
We are Mancunians Of this fair City, The People, The Love, The old nitty gritty The worker, The Shirker, The Homeless, The immigrants, each one of these they are all itinerants. The Steel, The Cotton, long since forgotten the old smokey chimneys blew out smoke that was rotten. The Massacre at Peterloo. Local politicians just don’t have a clue. With all the sights this city has on show here’s something that people don’t really know. Manchester is where New Zealand Born Ernest Rutherford split the Atom.
We Are Manchester, The City, the Place, where Sir Humphrey Chetham has his musical grace a school of music with musical taste. And where a man with a paintbrush painted streets on boxes. I don’t think Lowry ever painted foxes. And A comedian from Collyhurst who was absolutely awesome, a real funny guy by the name of Les Dawson, and where a man from Chorlton on Medlock became Prime Minister back in the day. David Lloyd-George had a hell of a lot to say.
We Are Manchester and it's the place for me. And a proud Mancunian I’m glad to be. I’ll sit in a cafe watching people pass by. They are all in a hurry and I wonder why. I see a business man in a three piece suit, and the homeless guy that is counting his loot. There's the girl on the street giving out free papers she is smoking those ciggies that give off those vapours. It's pouring with rain and she’s getting wet she’s worried about money to pay off her debt.
We Are Manchester and this is our City don’t waste your time we don’t want no pity. We are Manchester we are steeped in tradition we leave other cities standing. There’s no competition. Where A man from Moss Side a Vicar not a Dean called Rev George Garrett invented the submarine. And where the great Anthony Wilson was a journalist & impresario and a man named John Nichols invented the great drink called Vimto. and so When he wrote “This Is the Place” I’m sure he did so with a smile on his face. We Are Manchester and I’ll state our case because we are Manchester and we are ace.
Mar 30, 2018
Mar 30, 2018 at 9:45 PM UTC
The lights on the Welsh coastline shine
Her whiskey days are full of ink
& broken milk bottles, a grief so hidden
it’s barely there to be read as her plight
The Army took her boys & never
gave them back but she only ever
cries when she’s chopping onions at night
& reading the obituaries in the newspapers
at night she prays to Angels up on high
but never goes to Church on Sundays
not since the Vicar told her it was
all for the best & they had done their bit
the country should be proud of them
-she finds no comfort in such things
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 7:26 PM UTC
The ancient church of St James.
Lead-edged windows, each portion given stained glass faces.
Sunlight rippled on those faces, each face a tale to tell.
Sheltered from the elements, donated from above.
Safety under a covered roof of green lichen.
The bell tower shouted its cheerful peals.
Bridegroom proud. Standing in regimented battle regalia.
Epaulettes almost glowing with excitement.
Matching his shiny shoes.
As he waited for his bride that day.
To make his life complete.
He knew for now, deep in his heart.
That very soon he would depart.
Church bells rang, excitedly, as if missing every second beat.
His heart was missing more.
Glances up.
Between the external aisle, the now laying; no longer living, brothers under standing stones.
A picture of pure innocence in her ivory wedding gown.
Promenading through the church yard to catch her wanted man.
Escorted proudly by him, by the father of the bride.
Into the church they drifted upon ethereal glow.
The vicar bade them welcome.
After hymns and prayers of three.
Holy man he gave his blessings.
Pronounced them man and wife.
As the following morning sun she rose, forbade the joys of married life.
He wanted not to wake his bride.
He left just a bunch of flowers, mauve and blue, forget me nots.
In his heart he hoped he'd see her soon.
Before the wake of summer's moon.
For off to war he went.
Both knew he had to go.
Proud man departed for war, with rivers of silent eyes.
(C) LIVVI
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
Hot today
Road-crossing slow
Couples snail-walk
Love on show
Buses queued
Shoppers bagged
Cars throb-beat
Traffic drag
Mid-road-island
Man is lost
Tiny dog
Seeks lamppost
Time getaway
Stop revolve
Go home vicar
Mystery solved
Jun 5, 2011
Jun 5, 2011 at 9:30 AM UTC
I can’t get to sleep at night for fear of what I see,
There is definitely something strange happening to me.
I see Demons in my bedroom dancing round my bed-
Devils on my inner lids poisoning my head.
Beelzebub is running riot driving me insane,
Demons just won’t let me rest-they’re causing grief and pain.
I’ve tried taking tablets; I’ve tried counting sheep
But nothing ever seems to work I still can’t get to sleep.
‘Cause there’s Demons in my bedroom, screaming and a prancing.
Every time I close my eyes I see the Devil dancing.
Weir wolfs howling all night through, Old Nick running riot.
Perhaps it is the food I eat, I’ll have to change my diet.
Sometimes I sneak to bed real late and try to be unheard
But in the cupboards they must wait, I know it sounds absurd.
As soon as I turn off the light and snuggle down to sleep
I get the most enormous fright when out they start to creep.
They just won’t keep from out my head-
Moonlight wakes the living dead.
Demons dance and weir wolf’s scream;
I know that it’s not just a dream,
‘Cause I can’t get to sleep at all
Sometimes it drives me up the wall.
I toss and turn and scream and shout,
The neighbours ask what it’s about.
But I’m afraid to ever say
They’ll think I’m mental straight away,
What normal person sees this sight?
When off to bed they go at night?
I don’t know, I can’t explain,
I know it’s driving me insane.
I’ll ask the vicar round for tea,
Then ask him if he’ll stay with me
To exorcise these hellish visions;
He’s sure to make the right decisions.
He shouldn’t ask or be judgemental
Even if he thinks I’m mental.
Surely there must be some hope,
If there’s not I just can’t cope.
I ask, could you sleep safe and sound
To know your bed has Demons round?
Answers truthfully, please don’t lie.
No You Couldn’t! Nor can I.
Dec 9, 2009
Dec 9, 2009 at 9:53 AM UTC
Procession line Vicar,
Speaking with the lowly vigor,
He picked up from a Detroit ******
Calm down…no one said ******
Found prosperity
Through a bottle of clarity
Gift wrapped for charity
Then stolen in hilarity.
Refrain borrowed from a borrowing line
**** rolling down on an incline
Rest at the bottom to recombine.
Face up, mouth open; laying supine
Riots over a turn of phrase
Vanquished hope in lost praise
Lawyer’s bout due for a raise
Pointless comment regarding gays…
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 6:34 PM UTC
1 A little girl of eight
Was leaning on the gate,
Pondering the miracle of birth.
From her parents’ attitude
She thought it might be something rude
And was neither cause for sorrow nor for mirth.
2 By chance along the road
A little lady strode,
Hurrying from the vicar's after tea.
The girl thought, There’s Miss Price,
She is wise and nice,
She will solve my mystery for me.
3 Miss Price approached the gate,
The little girl in wait
Called out, Hallo, a lovely evening, too.
If you can spare the time
There's a problem on my mind,
A question I would like to ask of you.
4 The lady, coming near,
Said, Yes, of course, my dear,
I'll surely try to put your mind at rest.
Although I'm not a sage,
With the wisdom of my age,
You can rest assured I'll do my best.
5 I’ve a brother now, you see,
He was born at five oh three,
He's upstairs in the bedroom now with Mum.
And now I’m full of doubt,
I've tried but can't find out—
Please tell me, miss, from where do babies come?
6 Miss Price, a little shocked,
Thought she was being mocked.
Good Lord, she thought, what can I tell this child?
A spinster all her life—
No experience as a wife
This subject always made her feel defiled.
7 Miss Price looked all about
Seeking a way out;
Anything to stop this sinful talk.
Then, clutching at a straw,
With her dim old eyes she saw
The poor bedraggled, drunk and gasping stork.
8 She pointed at the roof
And in a tone aloof
Said, There is how your brother came to you.
I’m surprised you haven't heard
That all babies come by bird,
And now I must be off, so toodle-oo.
The little girl turned and looked up at the stork.
And the stork, to his eternal credit, winked.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 8:12 PM UTC
his mate fancied himself
Dr. Watson, or even Holmes,
in a past life, but with the name,
Jamsheed Razavizadeh, his friends,
who chopped the proud pronunciation
to J-Razz, laughed at such
a great notion
not Phillip, whose one brother
had drowned only last Hallows Eve,
which made Phillip a believer
in all things
from school, his mates walked the same lane
past the spot, where his mother still lay wreaths
every Monday morn, the vicar giving her
the tired ones each Sabbath
Monday Phillip took the long way home
not wanting to see the flowers, on their own
eve of wilting, a pitiable reminder
fresh things don't last
J-Razz was the only one who walked
the long route with him, his own brother
in the loam near Tehran, drowned himself
by fire, not water
each week, the wreath lay
but a day, and the two from different mothers
would again take the shorter path, where
they would find slight solace in silence,
their journey home often
in merciful miasma
near river's edge
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 4:30 PM UTC
There was a young man from Zagreb
Whose pencil ran out of lead
He went to the quack
Whose answer to that
Was use a biro instead
There was a vicar from the Tyne
Who put all his sermons online
A woman wrote please,
I'm weak at the knees
Here's my address, what's thine?
The Prime Minister went for a walk
Invited a woman to talk
She said "If you want a bang you can jolly well scram"
He said Do you know who I am?"
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 2:41 PM UTC
Bleak the rays shattered through broken panes
life, dust, dust, future and smoke
automobiles and gunshots solitary this hour
when screams rend the air, not my turn today -
no, not as yet. Mother, I want to rest my head
in your lap. Can I weep?
*Cactus in my soul, I ask, Can I, all that I am?
Lust is the death of man. Gouge your eye that lusts.
Broken void of my afterdays, that mourn
like the wind on the dunes*
Mother, I am well. There is love, there is hope, light
hidden like nuggets in piles of the dark.
Mother, I must be well.
It was the other night. Nightmare in loop.
Shamed, stripped beaten violated.
I am in a well, deep pit, drained
of all the essence of light
I can hear your voice echoing with the ray
shattered tumbling down the walls
*free, free I am the wind mourning in the dunes
can you tame the wind?*
In the depths, and in the deaths islanding life
mirage of oases, Mother, I have found him,
my Senor, to whom I give my ring
Violate me, visage of the abyss,
burn me, but can you find me?
beat me, chain me, but can you enslave me?
I am not here in these nerves and veins.
I am all of Augusta, America,
I fly in the Masts above the skies
*Sweet Lord, I see you have deemed heaven
for me, no purgatory but here.
I accept, I surrender, I submit. To thy will.*
Mother, do not negotiate. I am strong.
Where in my naked body have you found me?
here, in these bruises, have your embers soothed?
I am the Lamb that does not cower.
I haunt your soul as guilt.
In what little's left of it.
*He finds you in the catacombs where
I haunt the crypts that no vicar penetrates.
When all is lost, when death is certain at the sea,
there opens a way and I will walk out*
Mother, I am coming. Have faith, for faith maketh.
I hold you here in my ***** smouldering pain,
that gets me to wake every haunting day.
Every day that brings the sound of darkness home.
*I fly in the Masts above the skies.
Tame me, I am the wind breaking the dunes.
Ilohi, lema sebachtani sebachtani*
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 12:36 PM UTC
#Anonymous (1730s ?)
In good King Charles's golden days,
When Loyalty no harm meant;
A Furious High-Church man I was,
And so I gain'd Preferment.
Unto my Flock I daily Preached,
Kings are by God appointed,
And Damn'd are those who dare resist,
Or touch the Lord's Anointed.
***And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my Dying Day, Sir.
That whatsoever King may reign,
I shall be Vicar of Bray, Sir!***
When Royal James possessed the crown,
And popery grew in fashion;
The Penal Law I hooted down,
And read the Declaration:
The Church of Rome I found would fit
Full well my Constitution,
And I had been a Jesuit,
But for the Revolution.
And this is Law, &c.
When William our Deliverer came,
To heal the Nation's Grievance,
I turned the Cat in Pan again,
And swore to him Allegiance:
Old Principles I did revoke,
Set conscience at a distance,
Passive Obedience is a Joke,
A Jest is non-resistance.
And this is Law, &c.;
When Royal Ann became our Queen,
Then Church of England's Glory,
Another face of things was seen,
And I became a Tory:
Occasional Conformists base
I Damn'd, and Moderation,
And thought the Church in danger was,
From such Prevarication.
And this is Law, &c.;
When George in Pudding time came o'er,
And Moderate Men looked big, Sir,
My Principles I changed once more,
And so became a Whig, Sir.
And thus Preferment I procured,
From our Faith's great Defender,
And almost every day abjur'd
The Pope, and the Pretender.
And this is Law, &c.;
The Illustrious House of Hanover,
And Protestant succession,
To these I lustily will swear,
Whilst they can keep possession:
For in my Faith, and Loyalty,
I never once will falter,
But George, my lawful king shall be,
Except the Times should alter.
And this is Law, &c;.
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 11:06 PM UTC
It's Sunday,
shall I perch on the edge of a pew in the church and be bored by the drone of words said to be set in a stone?or
shall I turn on the pages of that rock of ages and be battered quite senseless by the relentless epistles sent off by apostles or just whistle a tune because the pub opens soon?
It's Sunday and the weather is fine,time enough to pray on any other day
and today is not like any other,'oh brother' you'd better believe,better receive it into your heart,this is the start and
it's Sunday.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 2:39 AM UTC
She was so much younger than he
And here they were, alone,
She all flesh and blood,
He all skin and bone.
All bristles, knees and hips
Skin as tight as vicar’s lips,
A slight smell of cheese,
They’d warned her there’d be nights like these.
She stood there with a duty to perform.
She stood there in her nurse’s uniform.
The old man was quite dead.
She drew the curtains round his bed.
Began to wipe the grime away,
As mothers will do every day,
She washed his ***** knees,
They’d warned her there’d be nights like these.
She scrubbed behind his ears
And stroked his head.
She combed his hair
And tucked him up in bed.
She thought about a goodnight kiss,
But no, not on nights like this.
If dead men dream then this was his:
He took that goodnight kiss
And dreamt of the wife he’d won,
Who’d touched him as the nurse had done.
He dreamt of days of bliss
Of when he never dreamt that there’d be nights like this.
Dec 4, 2017
Dec 4, 2017 at 7:38 AM UTC
A baby cries
and
A mother sighs
so
A belief dies
but
A husband lies
~
A teenager tries
between
A ****** thighs
whilst
A demon terrifies
yet
A tablet nullifies
lying
A politician decries
innocently
A child catches fireflies
~
A hater will despise
forever
A Vicar will eulogise
religiously
And life will never apologise.
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 9:50 PM UTC