A non-autobiographical poem, (though some of it might be true).

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Young Richard sat in the front row pew,

With a mischievous glint and a tube of glue.

He’d covered the hymnals in sticky delight,

And glued Mrs. Higginbotham’s cardigan tight.

The lesson was gentle, on grace and on peace,

But Richard had a plan to bring chaotic release.

He’d smuggled a toad in a pocket of plaid,

The finest, most wart-covered beast that he had.

When Captain Miller spoke softly of sheep,

Richard let out a bleat that was startlingly deep.

Then out hopped the toad with a leap and a splat,

Right onto the rim of the organist’s hat.

The Captain paused, with a sigh and a frown,

As Richard tried to catch the green guest, jumping down.

He tripped on his laces, he knocked over the snacks,

He caused a small riot in rows front and back.

“I think,” said the Captain, with a hand on his chin,

“Your spirit is large, but my patience is thin.

You’ve brought us a sermon of mud and of noise,

Perhaps you should play with the neighbourhood boys.”

So out went young Richard, with toad in his hand,

Banished from grace for the best of the land.

He skipped to the pavement, quite pleased with his day,

Having chased all the Sunday School boredom away.

This poem of course was not in any way autobiographical, just a made-up story, honest.

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© Richard J Kirk  – 2026.

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