Tuesday, 4 October 2011

Lay Grouter, Six For Fingers

And there hid with the angel upon his old throne
And asked why the angel was grey
And the angel replied with a twitch of his wing
That the Preacher had made him that way

I was painted, said the angel, and put on this throne
Like a statue set high on his roof
For if there’s one thing that the Preacher despise
It’s something as awkward as proof

And if then young Grouter would see to the chains
He’d then have a word with Messiah
For something as worthy as freeing an angel
Was doubtless worth Grouter’s desire

But if only for the moment, his desire had changed
He had escaped from the switch by a nose
And though soon he was sure his needs would return
At the moment his wish was for clothes

But he set free the angel by breaking the lock
Of the chains that held him in place
With a pick that he made from the end of his wing
And a jemmy of what remained of his grace

With a flash and a crack and a thunderous roar
Grouter was once more a dandy
His rags and his boots and now a chain for a belt
(It was just what the Master had handy).

And the angel declared that if Grouter agreed
He would accompany him for a while
For the Preacher was already entering his house
And his wife had a wicked, wet smile

So the pair left the roof and the angel suggested
That they call on a friend called the Boffin
And as an aside, though the Preacher then died
They never could get the lid on his coffin.

No comments:

Post a Comment