The New Country Curate


The curate was new to the small country town,
And city life all that he knew.
His need to impress, and not let the folk down,
Loomed large in this clergyman's view.

So when he was called to lay someone to rest
In some place remote in the sticks,
He practised the service to give it his best,
With prayerbook, and small crucifix.

He soon lost his way on that lonely dirt track,
For somewhere he took a wrong turn.
And time and again then he had to go back;
So now being late his concern.

At last he espied a great hole in the ground;
Two workers at rest by a tree.
No sign of the mourners, or others around.
Had they gone to afternoon tea?

He still thought he needed to do the right thing:
The lately deceased should be blessed.
A few quiet words, but with no-one to sing;
Departed was properly at rest.

The workers looked on from their place by the tree,
And wondered at this city swank.
And tried to work out there just why could it be
That he'd blessed a brand new septic tank!

© Tom Chapman 2008