Now here is a tale that some might see sinister:
Because it concerns a Unitarian minister
Who gets a bout of the well known lurgy
Because he's fallen in love
With a member of the Anglican clergy.
But not to worry, it's not too complex:
She is - phew! - at least
A member of the opposite sex.
Now Rev. Kimberley
She was ever so nimberly
Going about her ministry
Being ever so friendish
Wandering about the parish.
And Rev. Martineau
Ministered to those he knew
Extracting from his corner of the nation
Those gathered into his congregation.
Their churches were next door, as it so happens,
His was unnamed and hers was St. Stephens.
He heard she was broad
(That means her mind not her body)
But on Sundays they were separate
Rev. Janet and Rev. Roddy.
But how did he know?
Because she did blog
He opening his laptop
Every morning
First thing
As, awake, he sat on the bog.
Soon it was addictive
As he tracked her theology
He could see how she changed
Her believing morphology.
For some time before
He knew the score, going through
The Unitarian door:
Yes, he had done the same.
He once was in her lot,
So there was no blame
To be had,
And he was glad
That one day they'd meet
For she looked so sweet.
She moved and moved in his clear direction,
And he noticed so clearly the arousing erection
Of her webpages and blogs that were so many
That had been dropping the proverbial penny
Of where she now stood,
In what, for him, was good,
About her position.
He communicated back
Using many a pseudonym,
But he left some clues
And she soon knew it was him.
Sometimes he was funny,
Sometimes he took the micky,
She thought she liked him a lot,
Or he got on her wykky.
But one date in August
The Unitarians went part time,
So he decided to sit next door:
This was no crime;
But the smiles that followed,
Were the notes of recognition,
So that what followed next
Was by their own volition.
So they did then meet:
This was over a meal.
For lonely divorcees,
This had great appeal.
And then came the end,
And with them what so to do?
The urge was to conjoin
But what would the bishop do?
She was thinking like this;
She'd like to avoid:
Was she being so real,
Or was she paranoid?
She explained all the rules,
That he already knew about;
And these went on and on
That meant a sexual drought.
So many he'd known
The rules did avoid,
But she took them seriously,
Enough for a void.
He said "Look you mustn't"
"So think - it's just in your head."
She said, "No, it's very real:
The bishop in the bed."
But their urges were great
When she walked home with her mate,
As she threw open her doors
And the vicarage they entered;
And on her he was so centred.
The signs were now building,
As the coffee they sucked,
As their eyes came together,
And their focus was locked.
What the hell, she decided,
Old times she was renewing,
And he was in the bathroom,
And her clothes she undoing.
And excitedly they passed
As he went bare for her bed,
She rushed to her bathroom:
Completely excited
She was all prepared;
Her whole body a cooing
When a call came upstairs
And on the phone, the bishop asked,
Those immortal words:
"What are you doing?"
She said, "Oh my Lord bishop,"
I am deeply praying,
Following my greatest urges,
I'm not simply playing."
An arm was around her,
Rod followed her backbone,
She thought all was sorted
When she put down the telephone.
So now she was happy
As she climbed on aboard
Of her heretical friend
Warmed there in her bed.
She, full, and voluptuous,
He wanted to give her
His all, deep within,:
He knew he'd deliver.
She, and all her doubts,
Knew now compatibility
Because here was her man
In all his high fidelity.
The music was harmonious,
The melody in sure beauty,
They were in full agreement:
And it's not just theology.
But then, as these engines
Were running together
Her bedroom door opened
And it wasn't the weather.
"My God, how can you?
My own Reverend Janet
Of all who would do this,
It's you, on this planet."
For here in the doorway
Stood, holding his crozier,
Was a man who had spoken:
Who made her less dozier;
Not that this sleeping,
Was of eyes shut keeping,
With the man she had bedded
Before she was re-wedded.
She had feared before
The bishop's advantage of her
Coming around like this
Acting the predator.
The hints had been there
When he'd wanted some more;
She wouldn't be his mate:
In fact he could bugger off
And go to the ordinariate
For all she cared,
Whatever desires he bared.
But not this time, did he call,
Seeking her Diocesan Synod votes:
No, this time he'd come,
Wanting to sow some oats.
"My Janet," he cried, "Are you like this all of the time?"
"My Janet," he added, "I thought you'd be my own valentine."
Certainly not, not for this Janet Kimberley,
In fact the bishop lost much more
As she joined the General Assembly.
Not that she was complaining,
Of doing a year of transfer training,
Making a good fist
Of going on the GA list
Of ministers, as it insists.
And now she could meet her real man
On any day she'd tarry;
There was no bishop in the bed,
No hierarch to harry.
But this tale does not end so happily,
Because they come not snappily:
For to be now in the Unitarian way,
It's a journey of nearly one whole day
For them to get together,
Given that her first appointment
Is so far away:
She is the south,
And he in the north;
It isn't so convenient
For either or both.
But it does mean, at least, if fleeting,
That at the General Assembly
More things than meetings
Happen for Ms Kimberley.
As when comes too Rev. Roddy,
She and he are ready
To commune with theology
And do some deep beddy;
Ah but still care is needed,
For while there's no bishop,
There's something more widespread,
And we know it as gossip.
So here is a tale
That suits this occasion,
Of a warning to give
Should you change denomination.
For those of you who'd thought
This tale'd be more theoretical,
I have to inform you
That there are more ways to be heretical
Than just being theological.
For it is not just a fashion,
When it comes to the basics,
Of pursuing the intellect
And desiring some passion.
Ideas are just secondary
When it comes to the snare
Of meeting each other
And becoming so bare
Of knowing each other;
Which for a minister,
Is not quite sinister,
But is just a little,
To dare.
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