Father Richard's Rectory
Percolating through the brain
clear blue waters always drain,
and end up in The Rectors well,
and keep him fit and strong and well.
His plump, satisfied, purring cat,
Athanasius, sleek and black,
see lying in front of where he's sat
an half eaten finger on the mat.
From where does he get his food,
not from on top a vanquished rood,
but on darker walks this fella,
gets body bits from the cellar.
Jaffa his dog often gnaws
a thigh bone he found by the doors
of ancient crypt or mausoleum
leaving splinters where you can't see 'em.
Beware the soup, refuse the wine,
think what's fertilised the vine,
and you'll find in his stock
unusual bits of burial smock.
Along a dank, cold, dingy passage
I heard his dead housekeeper's message,
look round and see me by the door
and find out what shirt tails are for.
