When I was wee my father’s favourite warning was

“What if the Vicar calls ? WHAT… IF …THE …VICAR… CALLS!? “

My nakedness, my vulgarity,

My messy bloody bedroom floor

All were to be shielded from the holy man of god.

 Well that Vicar never did call,

Our family had no taste for Jesus

Or the earthly handler of his affairs

Well now I’m old and beyond caring

What any bloody body can think or judge

And the vicar does come call ,

And drinks my beer and my whisky

And talks poetry, life and death

And the bloody ills of the world

And the stations of the cross

And indecision and such certainty

The blood, the guts, and the stars

The beginnings, the endings, the fire

And while the nakedness is saved

My bloody bedroom floor is still a mess

And my vulgarity is practiced to an art   

And the dog humps my leg with abandon

And the Vicar doesn’t care

And I don’t care at all

But just maybe you would have

Sorry dad.

But then life is for the living.