We sat round the campfire telling tall tales,
The way that most westerners will,
Until one of us put on a big fleecy coat,
And complained he was feeling a chill.
So I gave him a drink, just to warm him a bit,
And his eyes rolled right back in his head,
Mumbling something as he fell in the fire,
Though I couldn’t make out what he said.
Now it may be the moonshine that made him do that,
Or heatstroke, exhaustion, or stress,
All I know is, we had to breathe into his mouth,
And beat up and down on his chest.
Then all of a sudden he opened his eyes,
And took in a big gulp of air,
Coughing and spluttering and falling about,
Until he finally slumped back in his chair.
Well we gave him a moment to smother the flames,
That still licked at the sleeve of his coat,
Wondering if we could hurriedly make,
A natural based plant antidote.
Then when he had finally gathered his wits,
Not that he had many before,
He held out his cup with a menacing stare,
Saying, “Come on, would you give me some more”,
Well he was built like the side of a large wooden barn,
So we were reluctant to argue with him,
So handing the demijohn over we said,
“Ok, take it easy though Tim”.
But ignoring us all he flipped out the cork,
And emptied the very last drop,
Though we begged and we pleaded nobody succeeded,
In making the big fellow stop.
Then throwing the empty container away,
He stood up and staggered a pace,
With his face turning blue a most un-natural hue,
He tripped and fell flat on his face.
Then like a beached whale he lay in a stupor,
Cursing in Latin, I think.
About the world spinning round and the hard frozen ground,
And the fact that he wanted a drink.
Now to turn him, to make him more comfy,
We all pushed him and pulled him and wrenched,
Then somebody noted his stomach was bloated,
Then the noise and that God awful stench.
Well we knew there was no point in complaining,
About the smell or him drinking our liquor,
Because we knew he’d only get his revenge,
On Sunday, because he is the vicar.
By S.E.Ralph.
1-2-2019
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