40. The Saint

“i’ll have a tin o’ tartan paint.”
Said the sparse ‘n’ spartan saint.

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7. Parable Of The Man In A Many Miled Race

There’s this man in a many miled race
He falls to the back and finds a space
Looks up to God and asks for grace
“Please let me win so I can keep face”

With a rumble of thunder
Fork lightnin’ asunder
Astonishment and wonder
Appears on his face

By golly gosh
The path was awash
Wet shoes and socks sploshed
Perplexed, he picks up his pace

Others slowed down
As the hail hit the ground
Creating a cacophonous sound
All about the place

First place was looming
The clouds were still booming
As grey as a Moomin
Perfect weather for Drakes

He became the main marker
As the day became darker
Forgotten, His Heavenly Father
Of whom he’d asked for grace

With a single streak o’ lightnin’
First place findin’ bitin’ n’ strikin’
The rest of the runners frightened
Sprint to finish the race