Saturday, 12 February 2011


She was just one of the gang,
A good lay-
Woman but a saint, bless her!.
The Widow, we lads called her.
Did the rounds for a bit of holy communion.
Been coming for years
To the caves
Long before you trotted out of my poke.
This time it had been a while and a while.
I had forgotten her moniker.

Those were the days her boy was giving grief,
Little Augustinus, Ach du liebe!
He’ll break my heart yet, that son of many tears,
Up to no good down in wicked Carthage,
Into bondage by now
Ill be bound.

I wanted to introduce her to you.
Piggles this is….
…It’s Monica!
Yes, of course, it was on the tip of my tongue.
Speaking of which, said the widow
Guess whats all the rage down the Casablanca?

She rushed straight to the rush-mat and the point,
Knelt at my feet.
Me, I wanted none of it. A holy law
Had invented itself. Somehow,
You had already become my first lady
And your piggy eyes
Were watching every twitch.
No, Monica, no!

The Widow needn’t have worried.
Little Augustine came up smelling of roses.
Six weeks later they’d made him
Not only saint, bless him!,
But bishop.

These days, when you are so dead
And no-one comes knocking,
(O Ali! I should have drained my glass
before it was taken from me.)
I think of the Widow as a time I never used
And could have done with.

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