Poem of the day

Nowadays we worship at Saint Tesco,

At first the neighbours seemed a little shocked,

But then, Saint Tesco's doors are always open,

Whereas Saint Cuthbert's doors are always locked.

It's hard to get to know the congregation,

And the vicar isn't actually ordained,

They haven't got a pulpit or a chancel,

But they've got enormous windows, and they're stained.

I'm glad we're in the parish of Saint Tesco,

I feel so happy walking down the isle,

The Reverend was rather gloomy,

But the check-out girls have always got a smile,

Their uniform is anything but dreary,

It's polyester cotton, and it's striped,

Pretty tunes come floating down from Heaven,

It isn't organ music, but it's piped.

Thank heaven I converted to Saint Tesco,

I find the new religion suits me fine,

It's altogether younger than Saint Cuthbert's,

Where the congregation all look ninety-nine,

The vicar used to talk about the prophets,

But he didn't mean the same as you or I,

He couldn't hold a candle to Saint Tesco,

And anyway his steeple's not as high.

Sometimes I dream I'm sitting in Saint Cuthberts,

In the old pew where water always dripped,

I can smell the incense sweetly burning,

And the rising damp that flourished in the crypt,

Today no candles twinkle in the window,

And no confetti lingers at the gate,

No more blushing brides and bouncing babies,

Verily. It's past it's sell-by date.

But business is booming at Saint Tesco's,

The worshippers are spending more and more,

They're getting such a throng on Sunday morning,

That they are going to reinforce the floor,

Frankly, it's been a revalation,

On Sundays now we relish going out,

And seeing all that inexpensive lager,

Has made my husband so much more devout.

They're stripping out the timber at Saint Cuthbert's,

It doesn't earn enough to pay its keep,

They ought to take a lesson from Saint Tesco,

And learn to pile it high and sell it cheap.

Some ladies still are singing in the choir,

Of the earth they will inherit if they're meek,

But Saint Tesco have on high the voices of angels,

With all the special offers for the week!

Yet sometimes in the busy supermarket,

Above the merry ringing of the till,

I fancy I can hear the church bell ringing,

From Saint Cuthbert's on the hill,

The bell has gone, the roof, the stained glass windows,

I dare say it's a merciful release,

For nowadays we worship at Saint Tesco,

It's closing time Saint Cuthbert;Rest in peace.

Pam Ayres