Phil Ward

Rookie - 30 Points (London)

A Church Farce Saga - Poem by Phil Ward

It happened oh so quickly,
There was no time to run,
The Vicar had never encountered,
A mugger with a gun.

Right outside the church it was,
An hour before the time,
Completely shaken up he was,
But thought that he’d be fine.

Mr Taylor in his Sunday best,
Stood at his pew right proud,
Knowing that others looked up to him,
He stood out in a crowd.

In his jacket and his fine white shirt,
Every note he sang in tune,
The model male within his church,
He’d be a saint quite soon.

Not every soul was godly though,
And Billy was one of them,
He’d wipe his nose upon his sleeve,
Then spit out lumps of phlegm.

The Vicar preached a sermon,
On the bad and evil ways,
Of terrorists and madmen,
Heads down, now let us pray.

Today it was a long one,
The Vicar did rant and seethe,
Something had obviously wound him up,
Got the bit between his teeth.

Poor Billy out of boredom,
Started crying and tugging his Mum,
I’m hungry he then said to her,
And proceeded to stick out his tongue.

I’ve got a homemade sarnie,
She whispered to her son,
Then reached into her handbag,
And handed him the one.

It kept him quiet for quite a while,
The clingfilm was a fight,
He held it in his dirty hands,
And took a massive bite.

Then Billy turned towards his Mum,
And gaped at her mouth wide,
She turned away disgusted,
At what she saw inside?

He didn’t like the beetroot,
And turned to tell her clear,
But as he held his head up,
The contents disappeared.

Young Billy coughed and spluttered,
He couldn’t catch his breath,
His mother began to panic,
At Billy’s impending death.

A neighbour then reached over,
And grabbed him round his chest,
The Heinrich method I think it was,
Who cares he did his best.

He held him tight and squeezed him,
A pop was all twas heard,
The contrast with the silence,
Was almost quite absurd.

It worked and Billy was ok,
He sat down quiet instead,
But everyone was still on edge,
From what the Vicar said.

There was an air of tension,
Not relaxed at all,
Though something was going to happen,
And then there was a call.

I’m shot cried Taylor going down,
Blood pouring from his chest,
The organist fell off her stool,
When she saw his reddened vest.

The Vicar was in a frenzy,
Sprinting up the isle,
Frock all round his ankles,
Completely lacking style.

Get down someone shouted,
We have a madman here,
Better do what he says,
Else he’ll kill us all I fear.

Then all at once things settled,
And quiet once more did reign,
The Vicar stopped racing round the church,
And composed himself again.

Young Billy now feeling better,
Not board at all by this,
Excited by the action,
At what was now amiss.

Old Taylor gasping loudly,
Was prostrate on the floor,
Where was that evil gunman?
Then a noise heard from the door.

Shouted, here! I am a doctor,
I heard a man’s been shot,
Now where’s the wounded person?
Does it hurt a lot?

I’m dying said old Taylor,
I haven’t long to go,
Said with melodramatic conviction,
He was once an actor you know.

Let me see this wound of yours,
Struth everything is red,
I’ll have to open up your shirt,
The paramedic said.

An expert in his profession,
Exceptionally astute,
Removed the offending object,
A lump of cooked beetroot.

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Poem Submitted: Sunday, May 8, 2011

Poem Edited: Sunday, May 8, 2011

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