I preached the other Sunday, as a vicar’s bound to do,
on the milk of human kindness, and First Peter, chapter 2,
when I was miffed to hear an interruption from the floor,
quite clear and unmistakeable, a large and fruity snore.
It came from Mr Barlow, halfway down and on the right -
when I stand in the pulpit, all the faithful in my sight,
there isn’t much I miss; but here’s the point, what could I do
to express my disapproval, but without quite saying who?
I waited till the final hymn, when notices were read,
and after “Thursday: sale of work” I coughed and gently said,
“I noticed someone sleeping as I preached to you today,
I’d welcome an apology sometime; now let us pray.”
I thought no more about it, it was just one of those things -
sufficient to the day, you know, the evil that day brings.
But when on Monday morning I put on my coat and hat
twelve letters of apology were lying on my mat!
Another six by lunchtime, and by supper twenty-eight,
by which time I’d had ‘sorry’ notes from half the Sunday gate,
and still they kept on coming through the week, till finally
there was only Mr Barlow hadn’t written one to me!
No comments:
Post a Comment