A Promise For the Vicar

It’s a lovely Sunday morning with the sun up in the sky; birds are singing out a spring tune, and some just fly on by, but this morning so serene is about to quick transform, where there is not a cloud but one assembling storm. My family and I arrived, for church on Sunday morn. My wife and daughter, our two sons, all walking ‘cross the lawn, greeting all my neighbours before the service did begin, and greeted by our Vicar before he ushered us all in. The Vicar standing at the pulpit for his sermon of the day, fumbled through a stack of papers, and unorganised I’d say, for he stammered through his sermon in a muddled twisted tone, so he was barely understood, and I heard a couple groan. I say they’re showing disrespect for this agent of the Lord; you’d never hear me moan in public or start acting untoward. I mean the Vicar tries his best and even if his sermons poor, there’s no need to knife him in the back on such a petty score. In whisper I’ve heard whining and that something must be done, but I’ve kept me flamin’ gob shut ‘bout the Vicar being skun, so I’m judged as a fence sitter as this ordeal did unfold, until my youngest son decided that the Vicar must be told. He mentioned when he grew up and had saved a tidy stash, he’d make sure that he would supplement the Vicar with some cash. Surprised the Vicar asked him “Why?” And me son said “Well my Dad, reckons you’re the poorest Vicar that this Parish ever had.”