Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 30th September 2018

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 30^th September 2018

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:

1.      Citizens of The Vize were outraged this week when local celebrity Ivor Biggun escaped a motoring fine due to a legal technicality.  Despite admitting that he had been wilfully cycling the wrong way up a one-way street, without lights in the dark, and talking on his mobile whilst cycling, Biggun’s legal representatives from the firm of Grabbit & Runne managed to demonstrate that he should be discharged on the grounds that he basically didn’t give a toss.  Magistrates reluctantly accepted his plea and he was acquitted without charge.

2.    Meanwhile crowds have been gathering along both banks of the canal to try and catch a glimpse of a single fish that has been sighted hundreds of miles away from the sea.  “He’s definitely lost,” said one well-informed local fisherman, who had been angling on the canal for the past thirty years without catching anything.  “A fish has no business being in all this water.”  Children were hoisted onto the shoulders of their parents to witness “Fishy McFish-face”, as the doughty creature has been nick-named by no-one.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Bill Posters Will Be Prosecuted

Bill Posters Will Be Prosecuted

Bill Posters Will Be Prosecuted!

There’s stickers all over the place.

I’ve no idea what he’s supposed to have done,

What crime he’s committed to have lost face.

Bill Posters Will Be Prosecuted!

It says it clearly, so it has to be true.

He’s probably banged up in a cell somewhere,

Wondering what on Earth he can do.

Bill Posters Will Be Prosecuted!

He’ll need a lawyer for his defence,

To argue his case before the bench,

To plead mitigation for the offence.

Bill Posters Will Be Prosecuted!

It’s probably right that he’s behind bars,

But why make his prosecution so public?

Is it written somewhere in the stars?

Bill Posters Will Be Prosecuted!

Let that be fair warning to us all!

It’s so easy to fall from one’s pedestal,

So simple to take a great fall.

Bill Posters Will Be Prosecuted!

But now I’ve got a knot in my knickers,

Because I’ve just seen another notice,

And they’re doing the same to Bill Stickers!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

The Resistance Of The Meek

The Resistance Of The Meek

Apparently the meek shall inherit the Earth,

But they’re shoved aside by those who would shout.

The squeaky wheel makes the loudest noise,

And reasonable voices are drowned out.

So I’m starting a new resistance movement,

To combat those whose behaviour’s too wild -

The only qualification is that you’ve got to be gentle,

Not only quite meek, but also terribly mild.

There won’t be any noisy protests,

We won’t be waving banners out on the street.

We’re going to awfully well behaved,

Whenever we decide that we’d like to meet.

We’ll be humble and we’ll be discreet,

Our anger and annoyance will remain pent.

You’ll have to pay very close attention,

To detect the tiny signs of our dissent.

We’ll start with strongly-worded letters,

Followed up with tuts and with sighs,

And if we get really worked up,

We’ll go as far as rolling our eyes.

We’ll be rattling our cups in their saucers,

Over morning coffee and afternoon tea.

A frank exchange of tea and biscuits,

Then everyone will look up and see.

We shall mow our lawns in careful stripes,

Wear gloves when we’re driving the car,

Wear beige clothes and sensible shoes,

Then you’ll see how serious we are!

We’ll carefully study our thermostats,

When controlling our Central Heating,

And there’ll be competitive queuing at the Post Office

If any resistance we’re meeting.

Politeness doesn’t cost anything,

Or so we’ve always been told.

It’ll be compulsory “pleases” and “thank-yous”,

But only if you don’t mind us being so bold?

We shall avoid the self-service check-outs,

Because we don’t trust the technology.

We shall hold the door open for ladies,

Because manners triumph over biology.

  

Caravanning will be a serious lifestyle choice,

And we’ll drive at a steady forty-two,

For a nice few days in Cleethorpes,

Altogether with our chemical loo.

Switching to decimal currency was a mistake:

We’ve only just got used to the change.

We’re going to keep on writing cheques,

Cos contactless cards are completely deranged!

We’ll insist on carpeting round the toilet,

And keeping loo rolls in crocheted dollies,

Because we all like things to look nice -

Just accept it as one of our follies.

We’ll be pulling on our cable-knit jumpers,

And buttoning our cardigans extra tight,

Before sliding into our very best slippers,

And double-locking the doors for the night.

And overnight we’ll use Steradent extra strength,

When cleaning and soaking our false teeth,

To make sure we have the shiniest dentures,

To hide the anger that’s bubbling beneath.

So if you’d like to join this radical movement,

And be a part of this seismic shift,

Just sidle over here and whisper quietly,

That, sometimes, you can get really quite miffed.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Trout With Herbs & Lemon

Recipe for: TROUT with HERBS & LEMON

Ingredients:

• Two or four trout fillets
• 2 oz butter
• Handful mixed fresh herbs (parsley, chives, thyme, tarragon – whatever is to hand)
• One lemon
• Salt & freshly-ground pepper
• Little olive oil

 Method:

1. Heat the oven to 190C/ 175C fan.
2. If the fish is/ are whole, remove heads, tails & main backbone (or get fishmonger to do it for you).  You want two/ four neat fillets so that the fish can be flattened
3. Oil a large baking sheet
4. Put the fish on the baking sheet, skin-side down
5. In a bowl, mix together the finely-chopped herbs with the butter & salt/ pepper
6. Liberally spread the mixture over the fillets
7. Squeeze the lemon over a small sieve to catch the pips, to let the juice run all over the fish
8. Bake in the oven for about 20/ 25 minutes depending on size/ thickness of fillets

 What else you need to know:

1. Serve with a simple fresh green salad and some crusty bread to mop up any juices

Cough

Cough

There’s something that I need to get off my chest

For I’m feeling rather queasy

And my breathing’s gone all wheezy

I reckon I’m scoring about a seven

On the International scale

The Cough Index of Looseness

I don’t think there’s any question

That I’ve got some bronchial congestion

And I need to make a major contribution

To the UK Phlegm and Mucus Depository

This soothing menthol mixture

May become a bedside fixture

This special fruit and honey syrup

Has made me Expectorant of a cure

For it’s the thing that Linctus together

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Lengths

Lengths

It occurs to me from time to time

That there must be a better way

My head emerging from the water

Grasping for the air

Gasping, lungs hurting

Breathless from the effort

Between tired strokes

Sometimes near choking

In the careless back-wash bow-wave

Of be-spectacled dolphins beside me

Speeding through the swell

In their effortless freestyle

And that there are easier means

Than this daily immersion

In stinging chlorine spray

To drag an ungainly body

Through the crash and splash

Beyond the pain barrier

Of an aching, heaving chest

And exhausted arms and legs

Soon losing their co-ordination

And any sense of rhythm

Between the lines of lanes

And ability to remain

On the straight and narrow

And that perhaps it’s all so… pointless

This swimming end to end

The relentless back and forth

Of many measured lengths

To ignore the overwhelming urge

To simply stop and float awhile

Then sink slowly to the bottom

Amid the rising bubbles

To inspect the detail

And the regular pattern

Picked out in white and blue tiles

Whilst other bathers carry on regardless

And a lifeguard looks on in horror

At the body of a drowning man

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Breaking In

Breaking In

I parked down by the Castle last week,

A fantastic spot in a little side-street:

Very handy for the shops and the stores,

A location quite difficult to beat.

But as I returned from doing my shopping,

I was in for a terrible shock:

When I tried to get into the car,

I found my keys wouldn’t open the lock.

It looked like I’d have to break in,

An action which could only perturb,

So I got myself into a helluva panic,

As I stood there, helpless, at the side of the kerb.

Then I noticed something that might be of some help,

When I looked into my car at the back –

I’d luckily left open the rear window -

It wasn’t much – it was only a slight crack.

If I could only get my hand inside,

And reach over the top of the glass,

I’d be able to pull up the door handle,

And inside the car be able to pass.

It was a good scheme, tho’ I say so myself,

I just hoped my arm was sufficiently thin,

It would save making a pile of smashed glass:

With a bit of luck, I’d soon be within.

I huffed and I puffed to get my arm in,

Tho’ my technique was terribly poor.

Eventually I pulled on the catch,

And, finally, I opened the door!

What relief! And how happy I was,

As I flopped onto the back seat!

I just had to climb into the front now,

Then I’d have the problem totally beat.

But that was easier said than done,

And it certainly couldn’t be done quick:

I got myself tangled up in the seat-belt,

And it’s painful to sit on a gearstick!

Then at last, I was where I should be.

In triumph I sat behind the wheel,

Getting ready to drive back to my home -

You can imagine how it would feel.

  

Then I noticed something untoward:

There were some gloves on the passenger seat,

And some de-icer in the door-pocket -

How they’d got there had me totally beat.

The air-freshener was different,

And there was a road atlas in the rear,

But I never carried such an old thing,

And that’s when, suddenly, I felt queer.

I should have realised that I’d cocked up,

I should have known it was all wrong,

For this wasn’t my vehicle you see –

Mine was parked three cars further along!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 23rd September 2018

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 23^rd September 2018

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:

1.      A woman from D-Town who was visiting Salzburg in Austria this week, has returned to the town complaining of poor treatment by her hosts.  “When I got off the plane I was asked to show my UK passport, which was a bit of a surprise.  It hadn’t even occurred to me that I was arriving from a separate country, so close has the UK’s relationship with the EU been for so many years,” she said.  “Then my hosts chose to ignore me.  I stood up and told them what I thought of them, but they just turned away.  Then at the evening meal they told me that I couldn’t have any cake, even though everyone else was having some.  I can’t believe that they treated me so badly.  I definitely won’t be going there again.”  No-one from any country in the EU was available for comment.

2.    After storms Ali and Bronagh swept through the UK this week, The Vize was bracing itself for the future storms to come – these include Crikey, Deary-me, Elpful, FFS, Getlost, Hellsbells, JesusHChrist, Kong, Lawks, MammaMia, Nerk, Oops, Ploppy, Queer, Rightyho, Stuffthis, Trump, Unbelievable, Veryfunny, Whatanother, Xrated, Yikes and Zabbadabbadoo.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Fairy Chimneys

Fairy Chimneys

Amid these ancient river valleys

In the river-hewn landscape

Bony fingers stretch upwards

Irregular sandstone columns pointing at the sky

Shielded from erosion of wind and weather

By basalt boulders perched precariously atop

Thus they sit

Wearing dainty caps

Stretched mushroom shapes

Tall fungal structures

Amid the tuff

Curved and crooked

Twisted, leaning

Top-heavy hat-stones

Defying gravity

Balanced high

Up in the air

Waiting for that moment

When the softer pillar

Will at last collapse

And rain down rocks

To the ground beneath

A fairy chimney no longer

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Pasta With Seafood, Garlic & Chilli

Recipe for: PASTA WITH SEAFOOD, GARLIC & CHILLI

Ingredients:

• 125g pasta per person (spaghetti, linguine or whatever)
• 100-200g cooked seafood person (prawns, white crab-meat, unshelled mussels, squid rings)
• 1 lemon, juiced
• 50g butter
• 2-3 tblsps olive oil
• 2 garlic cloves, peeled & very finely minced or crushed
• 1 red or green chilli, finely chopped (or to taste)
• Small handful fresh herb e.g. parsley or coriander, very finely chopped

Method:

1. cook the pasta in boiling water  according to the instructions on the pack so that it is al dente.  Rinse it in boiling water, then stir in 1-2 tblsps olive oil to stop it from drying & sticking
2. meanwhile cook the sauce – melt the butter and 1 tblsp oil in a saucepan
3. add the garlic & chillies & stew gently for a few minutes
4. add the cooked seafood and most of the herbs.  Warm through for a few minutes, adding the lemon juice
5. bring the pasta and the sauce together, mixing carefully to distribute the seafood evenly
6. serve in warmed bowls, sprinkled with the rest of the herbs & a few grinds of black pepper

What else you need to know:

1. serve with a bowl of freshly-grated parmesan cheese for sprinkling over

That Takes The Biscuit

That Takes The Biscuit

They say a drink’s too wet without one,

And that’s not just a piece of somebody’s wit,

Cos when you settle down with a cuppa tea,

It’s no good without some sort of biscuit.

But finding the right kind can be tricky,

And there’s some myths need de-bunking,

Cos if it’s the wrong consistency,

Then it’ll be no good for dunking.

It’s got to home-baked and British,

Cos those foreigners can be a bit potty.

If you’re not careful it’ll be Amaretti,

A Florentine or a biscotti.

The Flap-jack, Cereal Bar and Blue Riband,

The Club, the Domino and all of that,

These fancy types are all very well,

But they don’t measure up to a Kit-Kat.

But you’re surely asking for trouble,

If you start off with chocolate in fingers.

You see, it melts off in the hot tea,

It covers everything, and it lingers.

Any kind of a sandwich, can be a real bitch,

And an Oatcake’s insufficiently hard,

And a Jaffa Cake’s a bit of a fake:

So’s a Garibaldi, called a Flies Graveyard.

People go to grand cities, to find a McVities,

To find Mis-Shapes, (those biscuits in bits),

To be daintily fed, on slices of Shortbread,

Or crackers with cheese, sometimes called Ritz.

You’d be knackered, with any kind of cracker:

You’d not want to suck, on one of those TUC,

Might even be safer, with some kind of wafer,

But a Bath Oliver’d give you no luck.

Of Ginger Nuts and various Cookies,

Their supporters would sing a grand tune:

Of Marie, Butter Pecans and Fig Rolls,

The Jammy Dodger, the Coconut Macaroon.

Now I don’t want to stand here and Hob-Nob,

About Oreos and Wagon Wheels:

For it would seem, that like Custard Creams,

Each of them turns into goo and congeals.

  

Crispbreads and Mini Cheddars ain’t the thing,

It’d even be neater, with a Ryvita.

Oats and nuts, just ain’t got the guts,

But a Digestive’s a world-beater.

It can be Nice to have a Rich Tea,

A Lincoln, or a Morning Coffee,

But a brown Bourbon, would be frowned upon,

And can’t match a Digestive for toffee.

So taking all into consideration,

My conclusion’s more than suggestive:

Just forget every other kind of biscuit -

You know where you are with a Digestive!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Dervish

Dervish

We sit quietly beneath the Earth, hushed within a hollowed cavern

facing an empty central circle, and shiver in the dark, dimly-lit,

anticipating the coming mystic rite

Four figures enter, heads bowed, black-cloaked, hats like tombstones

dervish-devout, focused upon drum, pipe, and strings

improvising, building slowly to steady, hypnotic rhythm

calming the air around them

The semazen arrive, arms criss-crossed, testifying the unity of God

intoning Qu’ranic eulogy to the Prophet, their delicate first movements

salaaming with care and exactitude, performing sufic rite

describing the spiritual journey towards a new perfection

man’s submission of ego, annihilation of self to God

and ascension towards an ecstasy

the very rapture of being

Black cloaks cast aside reveal the ego-shrouds, white skirts of Mevlana

and, slowly, the turning itself begins, revolving right to left around the heart

turning ever-faster into whirling, like the blood around the body

protons in the atom, their own steady orbit around space

arms spread widely open, one hand pointed up towards the sky

the other back down towards the Earth

connecting God with Man

Eyes closed in concentration, heads inclined upon their shoulders

in the spirit, in the moment, submerged in love

the spinning circulation frenzied for a while, then finished

before returning silently to their cells for further contemplation

and quiet meditation

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Cappadocia

Cappadocia

A hard slog up the climbing roadway

Through the Toros mountains

Wide sedimentary formations

In bold zig-zag patterns

Gash their way across the hill-sides

Into the forbidding landscape

Yet dwarfed by volcanic cones

Whose igneous stones lie scattered

Forgotten playthings

Among the canyons and valleys

Isolated boulders amongst the scrub

Sparse trees and shrubs

Struggle in the high, dry climate

Amongst the debris and tuff-pinnacles

The ground itself crumbling and flaking

Between high rock-hewn promontories

Cheese-hole riddled

With caves and grottoes

Church-studded once

Faded frescoes and carvings

Sheltering monks and acolytes

And the very poorest people

Who eked a living from this place

And in this colour-bleached waste

The basalt and the sandstone

Engage in unequal battle

Pitted against unrelenting elements

Of driving desert-dry winds

Which sand-blast every feature

Smoothing into roundness

Revealing little of the harshness

Of this high plateau’d land-locked steppe

Where strong light casts hard shadows

Of tumbling pigeons

Which flutter here undisturbed

Small creatures in a vast landscape

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Turkish Delight

Turkish Delight

Into the Eastern lands of Anatolia

Hemmed around by ragged Turquoise coastlines

Through the narrow Dardanelles

Amid the seas of Black and Marmara

To Aegean and Mediterranean

Across the Bosphorus via Istanbul

No longer Constantinople, nor yet Byzantium

Sentinelled by soaring Aya Sofia

Once a church turned to mosque

Now monument and testament

To a long and bloody history

And inland a rugged landscape

Of ancient theatres and temples

The architectural artefacts

And stony remnants of many races

From warlike Hittites and their foes

Phrygians, Hellenes, Lycians and their ilk

Greeks, Romans, Kurds and Gypsies

Through many caliphates

And Ottomans of Empire

To the modern state

And legacy of Ataturk

Once, out of mankind’s nursery

In the basin of Tigris and Euphrates

And unknown distant places in the East

Along the ancient silk-road trading route

Carrying cargoes of gold and precious metals

Opium, silks and spices

Knowledge and know-how

Astronomy and astrology

And mystical religions

Came the camel-trains

Calling at the caravanserais

To break their arduous trek

Towards their Western markets

And now the groves of fruits and olives

The piles of teas and spices

The gemstones and the carpets

The flocks of goats and sheep

And the colours, sounds and smells

Of Turkish tastes and flavours

In the bazaars and hamams

Assault the very senses

Yet can give no explanation

Of this modern ethnic melting-pot

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 16th September 2018

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 16^th September 2018

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:

1.      Two men from D-Town have been relating their experiences of a forty-eight hour trip to Moscow in March earlier this year.  Shunning the normal tourist-trap attractions of the Kremlin, Red Square and St Basil’s Cathedral on the advice of a close friend, the two men visited a series of filling stations, a park, and the house of a typical Russian resident.  They said that they had originally only planned to stay for 24 hours, but that they had enjoyed their visit so much that they had stayed on for an extra day.  The Russian authorities have reacted with shock and amazement to the revelation, saying that the account of their visit was scarcely believable.

2.    And an international row has broken out after a cashier in Morrisons declined to honour a customer’s 10p discount voucher at the checkout, after several verbal warnings that it was out of date.  The woman, who cannot be named for legal reasons, is a seasoned shopper and has won fifteen Grand Shop titles in her career.  She accused the cashier of calling her a cheat, and went into what can only be described as a “meltdown” when the cashier, defending himself from the verbal abuse, declined to accept not only the coupon, but also her “Match & More” card, thus effectively denying her several additional frequent-shopper points, and thus a further £5 discount coupon.  Shoppers from around the globe have inundated social media with comments, both pro and con, some accusing the cashier of “shoppism”.  Others have hinted that the woman had previously been seen in Lidl.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Beige

Beige

As I get to be another year older, I think I’m starting to change.

My taste has gone right out of the window in a way that seems spooky and strange.

It all began with magnolia; other paint colours just seemed to gawp.

I could no longer stand any bright shades, and I developed a fondness for taupe.

I believe that it’s a rite of passage, one you reach at a certain age.

Everything else appears far too jazzy, and you get your first craving for beige.

It used to be brown, the colour of ear-wax, but the appeal of that tint’s started to fade.

What I was really looking for, I realised, was something matched to my hearing-aid.

It’s the same thing with clothing - attractive material now makes me retch.

I find I’m shopping for easy-care fabrics, and trousers with waistbands that stretch.

“No-iron”, and “Sta-prest” things that are cosy, and easy-clean, so long as they’re not green.

Slacks, wind-cheaters and cardigans, in a nice Polyester, or in Crimpelene.

I’m becoming an old person, I think, I’m obviously reaching that stage,

Where I don’t care any more what things look like, but it’s more important to be beige.

I crave a jacket with leather elbow patches, and trousers with vents and with slants,

Anything that will hide the volume, and the shape of my incontinence pants.

I’m not looking for sex, but my reading specs; with bright colours I’m near sated,

And it’s no longer the style, but the comfort, which is why everything I wear’s elasticated.

I’d rather be dead, than wear anything red: in fact that would drive me to rage,

And I wouldn’t feel mellow, dressed up in yellow; no – the only thing that’ll do now is beige.

I’d put up a fight, never to wear white; the loss of the rainbow I’m not going to rue.

I’m just same about purple or black, and don’t even mention royal blue!

No – it’s time to accept that time has moved on, my taste has declined, and I’ve turned over a page,

So you can keep all shades and variations – there’s only one colour for me now – and it’s beige.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Fielding An Illegible Player

Fielding An Illegible Player

I thought at first it must be a slip of the tongue

A simple error that anyone could make

But as the marmalade congealed upon my toast

I heard him explain some more about it

And I better understood what it was that he was saying

When he announced that my local club

Would be punished with a points deduction

A reprimand and a swingeing fine

It appeared the team had broken the rules

And fielded what he said was an illegible player

Which is a rather different thing

And as the sports reporter’s voice carried on

The breakfast table faded before me

And I was transported back to the touchline

From where I’d watched on Saturday last

And where I’d sought in vain to spot the winger

His whereabouts were uncertain, if not obscure

I just couldn’t make him out at all

A pass went out to him, to run down the wing

In an attempt, perhaps, to defeat the off-side trap

But he just wasn’t there, and the ball ran into touch

His position being indecipherable

His off-the-ball movement unreadable

He was totally anonymous in the game

Occupying a lacuna of space out on the right

An unseen presence, missing in action

His role in the side no more than a mystery

The meaning something I couldn’t even guess

The room swam sharply back into focus

With the shelf and the radio all present

The toast still soft and buttery in my hand

My mug of tea gone cold and un-drunk

And the announcer now on a different story

Having moved on from the offence and investigation

To the scores elsewhere in the league

I’m still not sure that I’d heard him quite right

But upon more sober reflection

I think he’d used the right word after all

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Pears Poached in Red Wine

Recipe for: PEARS POACHED IN RED/ MARSALA WINE

Ingredients:

• 4-6 firm pears
• 750ml robust red wine (or sweet marsala)
• 1 cinnamon stick
• 3 cloves
• Pinch nutmeg
• 1 pared orange zest
• 2 tblsp redcurrant jelly (or 2oz/ 50g caster sugar if using marsala)
• 200g brown sugar
• 1 vanilla pod (if using marsala wine)

 Method:

1. preheat oven to 150C/ fan 130C
2. in a flameproof casserole(preferably one of the right size to take the pears standing upright – but see below), put all the ingredients except the pears & bring to a simmer
3. meanwhile peel the pears carefully, leaving the stalks intact
4. add the peeled pears to the poaching liquid
5. cover, then put into the oven for 1½ - 2 hours, depending on size & ripeness
6. when cooked, remove the pears with a slotted spoon to a warmed serving dish
7. put the casserole with the cooking liquor back onto the hotplate & reduce the liquid until it reaches a syrupy consistency
8. strain the liquid over the pears to make them look glossy

 What else you need to know:

1. serve hot from the oven, or after chilling in the fridge
2. serve with cream, crème fraiche or yoghurt
3. you can keep the pears whole, or as halves, depending on the effect you want to achieve

Inappropriate

Inappropriate

How can it come about?

How can it happen yet again?

These allegations and accusations

Made recently against you?

For are you not supposed to be a shepherd

Set in Holy Roman authority

Over the sheep within your flock?

Are you not supposed to lead them

On the paths of righteousness

Rather than into temptation

Created by the weaknesses

Of your personal failings?

Are you not a consecrated priest?

Entrusted with the sacraments

And the care of willing souls?

A reverend cardinal indeed?

Not fiddling with the altar-boys

Or inappropriate touching

But a role-model for all believers?

A ministry of care for others

Lived in unnatural celibacy

In a position of respect

Where others dare not challenge you?

And is it not bad enough

That you ask of others

What you cannot do yourself?

That you should abuse such trust

By your dubious behaviour

Without you making victims into liars?

And compound your unclean crimes

By pretending that you are pure

And hiding behind your church

Which conceals your crimes

And helps to cover up the scandal?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018