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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Sunday after Evensong We would go for a sherry Now don't get me wrong It was just a sherry, nothing more I'd look at her face She would look at the floor We'd talk of the sermon By old reverand Jones We'd have little giggles Sometimes little moans But on the whole It was nice was that An hour in the pub Chewing the fat Then one of these evenings We two widowed old hags Were out in the shelter Smoking our fags When all of a sudden She bursts into tears Whatevers the matter? Bereavement I feared Its my rent She says all forlorn Ive spent all me savings Everythings gone I cant pay my rent Theyre chucking me out She was in a pickle Of thats theres no doubt Anyway, me A Christian soul I helped her out Of this deepening hole She was ever so grateful, And said so a lot Those promised repayments, Well I never got, But nevermind, Right thing to do, Soon back in the pub For a sherry or two Then one summer Sunday She wasn't in church Perhaps she was ill Or again in the lurch I called round on Monday But nobody at home Following Sunday Sherry alone Maybe the police? Would they think me insane? Or maybe her niece? Oh what was her name I pick up the paper I need a distraction If only to forgive myself My inaction And, well I hardly know where to begin Paper tells Of a ten million lottery win And smiling at me Holding her champagne A widow I know I shall not see again
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