*
He cast a crouton on the water
Watched it sog upon the swell
What came back was lava bread
And Chelsea buns as well
…
She threw in an expensive cake
‘Twas softer than a futon
But what came back upon the waves
Was just a soggy crouton
*
© Gail Foster 2016
*
The Publican and the Pharisee went for a walk after church
One wore pride and majesty, the other the marks of the birch
“I say, my man,” said the Pharisee, “will you tell if I come to your inn?”
“My lips are sealed,” said the Publican “let us sup of the wine of your sin”
The Publican and the Pharisee quaffed back a couple of jars
And then another two, then three, for such is the way in bars
And as they drank their wine, an odd phenomenon occurred
The crown of hubris lost its shine, the marks of the birch became blurred
“I say, my man,” said the Pharisee, “I’m feeling a little queer”
The Publican chuckled, mischievously, “Time for some shorts, and some beer”
The Pharisee, unused to drink, began to loose a screw
Became dishevelled, sweaty, pink, made a desperate run for the loo
Got locked in for a while, and had to crawl under the door
Got stuck, well hey, you have to smile, for half an hour or more
Was rescued by some rugby blokes, who loaned him some spare kit
And made up lots of witty jokes, about Pharisees covered in it
The Publican, sat at the bar, surveyed his sorry state
He wondered if he’d gone too far, in setting up his mate
“Just sit,” he said, “and listen well, for this I have to say
If I am surely bound for hell I’ll meet you on the way
You are no better, Sir, than I, no better, and no worse
Your spiritual wealth is an arrogant lie, and your pride is a cardinal curse
I’m no angel, I confess, but hypocrisy, mate, I abhor
I reckon I should grovel less, and you just a little bit more”
The Pharisee gave a little nod, and hiccupped in assent
Muttered softly “Sorry God”, and got his coat and went
The Publican then rang the bell, poured out a short, and sat
“Oh come on, God, you know the bloke, he really asked for that”
*
© Gail Foster 2016
For Good Friday
Another man
Another plan
Hung on a
Godforsaken tree
One dread kiss
And then
Was this
Eternal calumny
How bitter
Seems the glitter
Of dark silver
Simony
No shining glory
In this story
Just shame
And death
For all to see
In the daylight
And with hindsight
Could not there
Light and mercy be
For it was writ
This would be it
That all these things
Would come to be
The portrayal
Of his betrayal
Haunts our own
Humanity
No kudos
For poor Judas
Only lonely
Ignominy
by Gail
Well, well, Welby
Beg your pardon
He’s got three Poles
At the bottom of his garden*
And joining in with daily prayers
Some Syrians beneath the stairs
Asylum seekers in his shed
And Communists
Beneath his bed
He’s just doing what he can
To pander to the ‘common’ man
To separate the issues, see
Of race and the economy
With good intent to bridge the gap
‘Twixt logic and the racist cr*p
For Welby is a diplomat
Just in case, and just like that
It’s not that we’re a racist state
Good luck with that one, Welby, mate
Imagine pubs across the land
The dodgy banter, beer in hand
That Archbishop got it right
We’re all white mate, we’re all white
Share our wealth with all the planet?
Outrageous! (outraged Bob from Thanet)
But what of all the fish and bread
With which five thousand mouths were fed
Would Jesus Christ have found it hard
To put up Poles in his back yard?
by Gail
* A play on the words of an English joke, “Well, well, well, three holes in the garden!”
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