I’m a tolerant sort of bloke  Anon.

I don’t mind blokes who digs or stokes
Who fettle or work on derricks;
I can even stand a German band,
But I draw the line at clerics.

Chorus:
Why, strike me pink, I’d sooner drink
With a cover sent up for arson,
Than a rain-beseeching, preaching, teaching,
Blanky, cranky parson.

I snort and jibe at the whole of the tribe,
Whatever their sect of class is –
From lawn-sleeved ranters to kerbstone canters,
From bishops to army lasses.

Give me the blaspheming, scheming, screaming,
Barracking football garcons-
In preference to the reverent gents,
The blithering, blathering parsons!

John Lahey reprinted this verse from an old copy of the Kalgoorlie (WA) Sun in his Great Australian Folk Songs (1965).

Oh, and Mum would have been 97 today, if she hadn’t succumbed to the ravages of emphysema, and giving birth to and raising numerous (extremely grateful) children two decades ago.  Of course a couple of her more sycophantic children choose this date on which to marry.  Congratulations to them too.
Cecil Poole