The Reverend Boles

My favourite poet as a kid, and to this day, was Spike Milligan. His Silly Verse delighted me, with his stories of Mary Pugh (she was nearly two) and her loosely elasticated draws, the King of China (he'd never felt finer), and my favourite (of course it was!) Maverick Prowles and his rumbling bowels.

So, when the Reverend Coles appeared on the telly the other day, his name triggered off the begins of a silly verse. The first few lines rattled around in my head for a few days to the extent that I decided I needed to let them see the light of day. And so, in homage to Spike, here's my Silly Verse about the Reverend Boles (name changed to protect the innocent).

The Reverend Boles,

Had terrible moles,

That plagued him in the night.

He’d lie awake,

No rest he’d take.

Until the morning light.

This I cannot sustain,

My eyes a-pain.

My head is aching so.

I’m all a-shake.

My mind’s a-quake.

Those moles have got to go.

But where to start?

Those moles are smart.

A plan he’d have to hatch.

He’d rig some wire,

A gun would fire.

Those moles he was going to catch.

To the shops he went.

Money he spent.

On things sharp and nasty and mean.

There was no doubt,

No messing about.

Their ends would be swift and clean

He dug some holes,

Inserted some poles.

And connected them with twine.

He attached some springs,

And trigger-type things.

Six guns he set in a line.

Now time for a test.

To be rid of the pest.

He’d check those guns would get ‘em

He’d use a rake,

Like a mole he’d make.

Six barrels would quickly end them.

He laid on the ground,

He picked a mound,

The rake he inserted gladly.

The trap was sprung.

Off fired a gun.

And then it started to go badly.

Time slowed down,

The gun span around.

And crashed into the next.

The gun was cocked.

It’s aim was knocked,

The Reverand’s plan was vexed.

He tried to duck,

But was out of luck.

The gun was pointing at him.

The gun went off.

With a violent cough.

His survival chance was slim.

There was no sound,

As the dust fell down.

And the echoes started to fade.

Was the Reverend asleep?

He made no peep.

So quiet and still he laid.

The Reverend Boles,

Still has moles,

That are digging up his beds.

But he is unaware,

That they are even there.

For the Reverend Boles is dead.