139 – Hold It In, Vicar!

Poem number 139
Hold It In, Vicar!
Vicars never urinate on Sundays
They just tie their bladders up with bits of string
They hold the wee inside
As they tell how Jesus died
And they cross their legs discretely as they sing.
Vicars never defecate on Sundays
They’ve a holy cork they use to keep it in
They’re hiding writhing cramps
As they light the holy lamps
And they shudder as they speak to us of sin.
Vicars always urinate on Mondays
Then they defecate in simple silent bliss
That sweet moment of relief
Is God’s reward for their belief
Oh sweet Jesus it’s Divine to shit and piss!


248 – Good Friday

Poem number 248
Good Friday
The Romans liked ventriloquists
And acrobats and choirs,
They weren’t so fond of jugglers
Or those men who walk through fires
And if truth be told they hated
Nay detested, could not stand
Anything to do with magic
So all hypnotists were banned.
Now a man arrived amongst them
With prodigious magic skill
He could take a bloke with leprosy
And stop him feeling ill
He could wave a watch, and hypnotise
A crowd quite underfed
And convince them that their socks and shoes
Were really fish and bread.
Now the Romans, unforgiving
Took against this trickery:
They caught and beat the hypnotist
And nailed him to a tree
But the final laugh was his, it seems
For though they thought him dead
He had hypnotised the watching crowds
And fled the scene instead.