I don’t hold grudges personally, they eat you up. Often the person you hold the grudge against has given very little thought to how they might have slighted you in the past. It starts to become your problem rather than theirs. It doesn’t really feel like a good way to spend your time. It did remind me of a poem I wrote some years ago though, this is Road Rage Reverend by Gavin Turner.
The Reverend
The Reverend Hugh was a mild mannered chap,
Never one to be found in a flip or a flap,
His patience and charm were examples to all,
A man with the god given right to walk tall
Delivering sermons and preaching good will,
And bringing round supper for those that were ill,
No finer a fellow could ever be sought,
But there was one small lesson he had not been taught
Yes, this chink in his armour brought on the red mist,
For him, like a drug that he could not resist,
On Saturday evenings when out in his car,
He’d drive far too fast and he’d drive very far
He sought out the weak who had dared to go driving,
On his road they had not a hope of surviving,
He drove like a mad man hunched over the wheel,
The adrenalin rush was part of the appeal
He harassed and harangued all the other road users,
Whilst cursing and swearing,
“You wimps” and “You losers!”
Get out of my way or I’ll tear you apart,
The conviction of voice was his well defined art
The Robin Reliant of Angela Doors,
Was out for a spin on the North Yorkshire moors,
The Reverend’s ire exponentially grew
Rammed her car off the road (and poor Angie went too)
And as she was toppling over and over,
She heard a strange laugh from inside that Range rover,
Her lovely old motor was nothing but scrap,
and Angie expired in her tiny death trap
But by now the ecclesiast sped into town,
with his mind on fresh victims that he could bring down,
As he swigged from a thermos of weak lemon tea,
And examined the map with iniquitous glee,
His rage was not satisfied,
curbed or requited,
But a thought now occurred that had got him excited,
in order to crown himself King of the Road,
His next victim must be a very wide load
He took to the motorway looking for strife,
Unaware he was close to the end of his life,
He spotted his prize slowly chugging away,
If there was such a thing, he knew this was his day
The truck driver, Jimmy, a fat man from Clyde,
Saw the crazy old priest steaming up from the side,
Quite shocked and surprised, he just thought of his load,
As this lunatic tried to run him off the road,
For Jimmy was working for fascist dictators,
who needed explosives to blow up some traitors,
The vicar had shunted and pushed every way,
The tyres slipped, the truck tipped, and it blew him away
The explosion was seen for ten miles all around,
and small pieces of priest got piled up in a mound,
If a moral arose from the smoke acrid black,
It would be, no ones perfect,
So just watch your back!
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