The Good Shepherd
My sister's come to stay a while,
And life has turned its insides out,
'Cos sisters choose extremist views
On meals and mess and stuff like that.
The house smells like a surgery,
I've lost two shirts, my pants are new,
We have to wash up every cup ―
But I can cope, a week or two.
My sister's come to stay (not long).
We talk ― well, she does ― after tea,
She spouts this guff, long words and stuff:
I miss my Mendelssohn CD.
Today it's Sunday. Church, she says!
What happened to a day of rest?
The plumber's gone, there's tennis on:
She's got me in my Sunday best.
These pews are hard. It's still as death.
The women's doubles must be soon,
I need more sleep ― 'We're all his sheep,
And he's our Shepherd, everyone'.
This Jesus reckons we're all sheep?
My sister too? I chance a peek
And grin a bit: it seems to fit.
I slip out for a thoughtful leak.
Now let's not dream of winsome lambs
A-springing through an ABC,
All dazzling white, a charming sight,
With bunnies on an emerald lea.
Let's muse instead on stubborn ewes,
And mad-eyed wethers barging through,
All panic-prone, with heads of bone:
My oath, this Christ knows me and you.
Averse to change; intently go
Wherever head sheep say is best:
Dumb guides askew, a bossy few
As woollypated as the rest.
Suspicious, helpless: this bloke's right!
We're safe in numbers, lost alone,
Just lumps of meat on smelly feet,
The tinea and footrot zone.
Such prepossessing wormy sheep,
With scabby mouth and pizzle rot,
And flystruck stink. It makes you think:
Christ Jesus must love us a lot.
I tell my sister once we're done,
How revelation's hit the spot.
'You awful bloke, how dare you joke
On Holy Scripture. That's all rot!'
My sister came to stay a bit.
She's gone again, I'm glad to tell.
The kitchen sink is past the brink,
And me and God get on quite well.
Placegetter in a competition years ago (with an error or two fixed in this edition). How often errors sneak in, from editing so many times that I forgot why I wrote it a certain way in the first place.