The Publican and the Pharisee

The Publican and the Pharisee went for a walk after church One wore pride and majesty, the other the marks of the birch “I say, my man,” said the Pharisee, “will you tell if I come to the pub?” “Nay, it makes no odds to me, and we do some cracking grub” The Publican and the Pharisee quaffed back a couple of jars And then another two, then three, for such is the way in bars And as they drank their wine, an odd phenomenon occurred The crown of hubris lost its shine, the marks of the birch became blurred “I say, my man,” said the Pharisee, “I’m feeling a little *****” The Publican chuckled, mischievously, “I reckon a short, and some beer” The Pharisee, unused to drink, began to loose a screw Became dishevelled, sweaty, pink, made a desperate run for the loo Got locked in for a while, and had to crawl under the door Got stuck, well hey, you have to smile, for half an hour or more Was rescued by some rugby blokes, who loaned him some spare kit And made up lots of witty jokes, about Pharisees covered in it The Publican, sat at the bar, surveyed his sorry state He wondered if he’d gone too far, in setting up his mate “Just sit,” he said, “and listen well, for this I have to say If I am surely bound for hell I’ll meet you on the way You are no better, sir, than I, no better, and no worse Your spiritual wealth is an arrogant lie, and your pride is a cardinal curse I’m no angel, I confess, but hypocrisy, mate, I abhor I reckon I should grovel less, and you just a little bit more” The Pharisee gave a little nod, and hiccupped in assent Muttered softly “Sorry God,” and got his coat and went The Publican then rang the bell, poured out a short and sat “Oh come on, God, you know the bloke, he really asked for that” © Gail Foster 2016