The Reverend Hugh was a mild mannered chap
Never one to be found in a flip or a flap
His patience and charm were examples to all
A man with the god given right to walk tall
Delivering sermons and preaching good will
And bringing round support for those that were ill
No finer a fellow could ever be sought
But there was one small lesson he had not been taught
Yes, this chink in his armour brought on the red mist
For him, like a drug that he could not resist
On Saturday evenings when out in his car
He’d drive far too fast and he’d drive very far
He sought out the weak who had dared to go driving
On his road they had not a hope of surviving
He drove like a mad man hunched over the wheel
The adrenalin rush was part of the appeal
He harassed and harangued all the other road users
Whilst cursing and swearing
You wimps and you losers
Get out of my way or I’ll tear you apart
THe conviction of voice was his well defined art
The Robin Reliant of Angela Doors
Was out for a spin on the North Yorkshire
When all of a sudden the Revs mean streak of blue
Took her car off the road (and poor Angie went too)
And as she was toppling over and over
She heard a strange laugh from inside that Range rover
Her lovely old motor was nothing but scrap
and Angie expired in her tiny death trap
But Reverend H had sped off into town
with his mind on fresh victims that he could bring down
Two bikers recycled, three pensioners pegged
He examined his list to find he was ahead
As he swigged from a thermos of weak lemon tea
And examined the map with iniquitous glee
His rage was not satisfied
curbed or requited
But a thought now occurred that had got him excited
in order to crown himself King of the Road
His next victim must be a very wide load
He took to the motorway looking for strife
Unaware he was close to the end of his life
He spotted his prize slowly chugging away
If there was such a thing, he knew this was his day
The truck driver, Jimmy, a fat man from Clyde
Saw the crazy old priest steaming up from the side
Quite shocked and surprised, he just thought of his load
As this lunatic tried to run him off the road
For Jimmy was working for fascist dictators
who needed explosives to blow up some traitors
The vicar had shunted and pushed every way
The tyres slipped the truck tipped, and it blew him away
The explosion was seen for ten miles all around
and small pieces of priest got piled up in a mound
If a moral arose from the smoke acrid black
It would be no ones perfect
So just watch your back
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem