Poetry

---

Bowler-hatted gentlemen forbidding charity;
soap-box preachers preaching with a lack of clarity;
parents rushing children through their breakfast, lunch, and tea;
children dressed in dry-cleaned best for someone else to see;
it's Sunday.

Even though you may not know what half the lessons mean,
Sabbath School at half past ten until you're past fourteen;
pass the park, but turn your head, ignore the bowling green;
walk to church, then back again, endure what's in between;
it's Sunday.

Mustn't use the public transport; mustn't this or that;
mustn't watch the television; mustn't dust the flat;
mustn't buy The Sunday Times; and mustn't lose your hat;
mustn't fertilize the garden; mustn't bath the cat;
it's Sunday.

Mother's working like a carthorse, doing what she cannot shun;
father, caring for the children, isn't finding it much fun;
vicar, verger, curate, pastor, deacon, priest, and nun,
work all day, without much pay, at work that must be done
on Sunday.

Father's lost the baby's dummy; mum has gone and bumped her head;
baby's screams upset the preacher, father wishes he was dead;
'Sunday is the christian's Rest Day', that was what the preacher said.
I thought, if that's really true mate why don't christians stop in bed
on Sunday?

---

PLEASE ENCOURAGE AUTHOR BELOW LEAVE COMMENT ON ARTICLE