The Parson’s Tale ‘The Gospel Truth’

Rather than read me talking about it, here it is: the biog followed by the real thing. PAxxx

Rap, The Son aka ‘The Parson’: I learnt my skills on the street not the classroom. African ancestry, spitting in my hands free, born and bred and battling in Canterbury. I’ve got an ology in the trilogy: allegory, tautology, and etymology. Fired by KRS-One and the Bible: in the hip hop academy, an Old Skool disciple.

… Stand ye in the ways, and see, and ask for the old paths, where is the good way, and walk therein, and ye shall find rest for your souls… Jeremiah 6:16

My beloved, truth isn’t tender, it’s tough.
I’m keepin it real, no rum, ram, ruf,
rhyme for a reason, rap that reaps an sows
wheat from the chaff, punchier than prose.
So it flows – Seven Sins was my Crew, you can ask them,
use ta be ‘The Pimp’ but now I’m ‘The Parson’.
Parental advisory, listen to the lesson,
this be no sermon, this be my confession.

Two roads diverged from the A2
one went to Heaven, the other Hey, you!
Fancy some fun, brotha, won’t ya park ‘n’ ride?
I paid a heavy price an’ I puckered up to PRIDE.
Her lips were wide, painted to a botox smile
and her scent more expensive than the square mile,
chandeliers in her ears and a designer outfit
gown so long it was trailing in dogshit.
What of it? Sista had diamonds in her teeth,
the only thing concerned me was what was underneath
the gown, her bra was brief, she paid a monumental pound
for cleavage as full as the Dane John Mound.
Jack fell down and broke his crown for a bling singer,
diva wrapped the rapper round her ring finger.
I loved my enemy, vicar was the MC,
PRIDE was my bride and our bridesmaid was ENVY.

Truth isn’t tender, it’s tough as they come,
keepin it real with a ruf, ram, rum.
Seven Sins was a rough an’ ready bunch,
my beloved, listen to the power of my punch.

ENVY hung out with ASBOS and Chavs,
they was the have nots and we was the haves.
She looked fine as a glass of wine but she craved
the high life, wanted to be my wife, slaved
in the kitchen creating feasts to seduce me –
Whitstable oysters all tender and juicy.
Her tongue was forked, she was an ace cook
but she was bitchin us daily on Facebook
in French. She had a versatile tongue.
She gave me the rope and I was, well, hung.
She had two faces, one fair and one foul,
she had two brothers, fresh outta jail.
They were pimps – and she worked for them both,
the bad one was WRATH, and the mad one was SLOTH.
I took a stake in their undeclared business
Pride was my bride and Envy my mistress.

Truth is tough when it comes to wham bam,
I hit the wrong road, the ruf, rum, ram.
Seven Sins was givin me bitterness an stress

but temptation’s bustin out of a low-cut dress.

Wrath and Sloth were the Canterbury Krays,
suits so sharp you be bandaged up for days.
Wrath would attack if you said a crow was Black,
Sloth needed crack just to get out of the sack
an’ I was Jack planting my cash to hatch gold.
But brothas was hatching a plot to snatch tenfold,
sent sex on legs times two to unbutton me –
one was called GREED, the other called GLUTTONY.
They had a catering business called Cayenne,
catered for men, if you know what I’m saying
but they did weddings, and they managed mine,
GREED for the profit, GLUTTONY for fine wine.
GREED sucked the gold from my teeth till I was poor,
GLUTTONY ate my face till it was raw.
God’s law. If you deal with deadly sins, you be dust
that’s what you get when PRIDE marries LUST.

The gospel truth is a rough tough lesson
but hear me, beloved, here ends my confession.      
In heart, in word, in deed I be repenting –
Canterb’ry Cathedral I be frequenting.
Took the wrong path but now I’m on the right track,
tempted but power of prayer helps me fight back.
Alright Jack, now that God is my guide,
Faith is my sista, Humility my bride.


2 thoughts on “The Parson’s Tale ‘The Gospel Truth’

  1. The sonnet alludes to the working day of a draw girl of 1697, probably a Huguenot, who begins her work for the day at The old Weavers’ House overlooking the River Stour. She catches sight of a 21st century boatboy who is rowing down the river to greet passengers for his Canterbury Historic River Tour – he also sees her.
    Threads of Time
    Walking down King Street, wishing for Sunday,
    She heaves the old kettle over the flame.
    Pulling up blinds on this dull, cheerless Monday,
    The River Stour draws close her pinafored frame.
    Gazing intently at blurred mirrored versions
    Of white weavers’ houses, shimm’ring blue sky,
    The dark liquid trees are welcome diversions,
    Constant, yet changing, the river crawls by.
    Her master’s sharp cough snaps her thoughts back to work,
    Breakfast is served, stray silk scraps thrown away.
    The loom’s wooden torso starts up with a jerk,
    She tugs the fine threads with an air of dismay.
    A T – shirted boatman stares up at her face,
    Returning his glance, she transcends time and space.

    Karen Wells

    • Dear Karen,
      Really enjoyed your sonnet which is in the anthology. I’ve read the whole book cover to cover because I had to write the foreword. I mention a few notable pieces and your sonnet is one of them. Love the concept, the look of love cutting through time and space. Hope you enjoyed my version of The Parson’s Tale.

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