A tintinnabulation Brings the weekly congregation To the church of Saint Cecilia, on the hill; But the vicar's peroration On the sins of fornication Are heeded not by organ-basher Bill. In the choir stalls o'er yonder There's a girl with hair that's blonder Than the marzipan on many a sweet confection, And throughout the speech he'll ponder And his thoughts will always wander To that lady, more in lust than mere affection. This lady is the missus Of the vicar, but his kisses Lack much passion, so the organist she sees, And of subject like she's thinking, And responds by slyly winking At the reprobate who's sitting at the keys. To tell youtrue, the fact is After weekly choir practice, Around nine-thirty every Wednesday night, To the organ loft she's creeping, And in his arms she's leaping Experiencing harmonious delight. Out all the stops he's pulling As he's giving her a bulling, A hup, a ride, a rogering, a tuppance, Not aware the cuckold vicar's Well aware she sheds her knickers, And even now is planning their come-uppance. A specialist collector Quite soon will call upon the rector, To cart the mighty Wurlittzer away. Ajukebox now installed in there, Can be, when folks are called in prayer, Set up for hymns of any style to play. So before I end this saga, And I go completely gaga, I'll just explain the consequence I've proved: If to carnal lust you pander, And with other's wives philander, You may well find your organ gets removed. To the crowd who churchward mingle, The vicar now seems single, Of his erstwhile wife and lover he's tight-lipped, But if you hear screams and yelling 'Neath the nave, here's what he's telling: It's only ghhosts a-wailing in the crypt.
More slightly off-colour stuff
Wednesday, November 05, 2003