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My wife and I are members of - religious stamps association -
that was formed some years ago from our church’s congregation.
We don’t drink and never smoke; and drugs leave us in despair,
but recently one Sunday our congregation learnt to swear.

And they learnt to swear at our place on the day it was our aim
to host our stamp association members with some personal fame  
from preparation of a supper that they’ll eat and not forget -
and the members never will, even if it is with deep regret.

But when hosting for our special guests we want to be precise,
so table space for stamps for sale, plus catalogues with current price
were set up in our living room, but then my wife chose to reveal,
she’ll cook a meal that’s cordon bleu with classy restaurant appeal.

But what to cook was her dilemma that would suit the congregation.
She yearned for something quite unique to earn her commendation, 
so debate upon the Saturday, was nerve wracking so to speak;
more so when I mentioned mushrooms that were growing near a creek.

Scallop potatoes, honey carrots, minted peas, plus green string-less beans
to accommodate steak smothered mushrooms, I suggested but that means
I need to come up with a second choice, for my suggestion was declined, 
‘cause field mushrooms are deemed as poisonous in my dear lady’s mind.

So it took me time convincing her that what she’s telling me’s not right.
Field mushrooms are not gold tops that will set your brain alight,
and they’re definitely not white caps that will leave us all stone dead; 
they’re mushrooms full of flavour on which country folk are born and bred.

But convincing her was quite a match with ‘what if’ questions by the score ...
they’re field mushrooms filled with flavour, not like those brought in a store.
Yet with ‘old wives tales’ strong in her mind, that I know are only ‘bull;’ 
and still she wasn’t quite convinced when I produced three buckets full.

So to compromise the situation and alleviate her dreaded fear,
I suggested that she make a mushroom sauce and added slow and clear,
that we mix some with the fat off steak and put it in our Rover’s bowl,
and if Rover scoffs the lot and lives then it won’t hurt a living soul.

And with our Rover looking satisfied and the congregation been well fed,
there’s compliments about the mushroom sauce (I joked – see - no ones dead)
so the wheeling and the dealing started for stamps both swapped and sold  
until a knocking on our front door put the afternoon on hold.

It was Chloe our neighbor; two doors down, who was looking quite forlorn.
Her eyes were damp; her mouth it shook; and with her features pale and drawn,
she placed a hand on both our shoulders and in a quivering voice Chloe said,
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news but your poor old Rover’s dead.” 

My wife flew into uncontrollable hysterics that filled our living room,
and hearing mushrooms must be toxic, the congregation did assume
that their lives were fraught with danger, and so with this emergency,
my wife was shrieking to a doctor ‘there’s a need for urgency!” 

Amid panic induced mayhem, my wife and I were anything but calm,
while the doctor and the medics were keeping everyone from harm
as they syringed the enemas and pumped our stomach contents out, 
and the sight and smell just wasn’t pretty where the contents lay about.

The Religious Stamps Association members were left a sallow lot,
who lounged about all out of breath, with most completely shot,
until Chloe quietly uttered loud enough - which made the penny drop;
“You know that bloke who skittled Rover, well he didn’t even stop.”
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