THE SONG OF St. NORMAN ROUNDARCH

Every Sunday Norman Roundarch he put on his sober best,
Sober for his deep devotions, sober for his public role.
Polished black shoes, broad cloth trousers, linen shirt and rounded neck
Finally his aging cassock, worn and shiny from the kneeling
Worn and ragged at the hem line, frayed and faded at the elbows.
Like a black crow in the morning, like a raven in the night
He would walk to St Adolphus, He would walk to pray and preach.
Hymn book, bible and his sermon were the only things to take,
perhaps a hat against the weather but he mainly travelled light.
But one Sunday he was flummoxed, he was startled and surprised,
When he got up in the pulpit clasping close his holy texts
They were lumpy, they were metal, they were made of wood and steel,
He had brought his father’s 12 Bore worn and smooth from years of use,
Not the ancient texts of Cramner, not the scribbled sermon notes.

DOWN he looked in consternation, UP he looked for heavenly help,
OUT into the congregation, DOWN again in disbelief
To his horror, to his terror, looking at his other hand,
There, where he had saught redemption, where he hoped this dream would end
Hoping for a swift solution, hoping for the written notes
Only saw, to his confusion, the pheasant trapped at poacher's dawn.

Cold the tremor down his backbone, up the hair stood on his head
Cold the shiver on his bare legs, loud the cry he did emit.
Oh what misery, oh what scandal, oh what would his flock believe,
When they found out, when he turned up...
His best trousers by the river, fishing flippers on his feet.

Skepwatha. Book ii p.262b