ramblings and things
1,019,493 poems read
Rev KGB - a curate's tale.
I used to be a curate in, and Beaky
named a North York's town
while taking a sip of his beer
and eying the company round.
We knew there was a story coming.
We could tell by the look on his face
and the way he squirmed and wiggled
his backside comfortably into place.
There were quite a few cremations there
and I was baffled and just didn't know
why every hearse cab seemed to be
a travelling soft fruit show.
There'd be a basket or bowl or bucket
full of finest orchard fare;
but they were always empty
when that hearse left there.
When I‘d served my time,
was felt to be a man of trust
they let me into the secret
and I laughed near fit to bust.
This was thrifty Yorkshire
and nowt went to waste
so they used the constant heat
to brew some wines of taste.
I remember my feelings of pride
that very first time
I tried the first sip of
my own crematorium wine.
The labourer's worthy of his hire and
they‘d all have been chuffed if they knew
their final act of departure
enabled a fine home brew.
Beaky finished his pint
accepted appreciative grins,
muttering it's nearly time
whose going to get them in??