Meditações - um rato no velho relógio da igreja...

The rat sat in the old church clock,
He’d drank the holy wine,
And now he waited for his lunch,
He waited for the sign …
He knew that when the clock struck three,
Or sometimes even four,
He’d hear the turning of the lock,
To that old wooden door …
They’d place the coffin on its stand,
And then they’d stand and pray,
They’d leave the body overnight,
For burial next day.
Then after they had left that place,
Where angels come to sing,
The rat would leave his ticking home,
And come and do his thing.
He’d quickly clamber up the leg,
Of that old coffin stand,
And with a grin of pure delight,
He’d start his meal so grand …
That coffin bottom gave no fight,
To rat’s quite mighty jaws,
And then he’d simply crawl through hole,
By use of mighty paws …
And there he’d be rewarded,
With a meal of pure delight,
This rat would not go hungry,
In that holy place that night ….

A head? A toe? A nice blue eye?
A liver or a nose?
This evil rat was spoilt for choice,
You only can suppose,
But if it’s your departed,
Just resting in that place,
Don’t lift the coffin lid my friends,
You will not know her face…

Sir Mike Bike