“Primitive Methodist Chapel”,
Was engraved over the door
Of the holiday conversion;
A place of worship no more.
The village long since stopped praying,
The villagers moved away
As property prices blossomed,
As commuters came to stay.
The old chapel was transformed with
Gold standard fittings throughout;
Wet room, king size beds, wood burner,
A plush holiday redoubt.
First guests were a married couple
Still living the lover’s life,
For she had a husband at home,
While he’d left behind his wife.
Safe in that secluded idyll
They could enjoy, undisturbed,
Illicit concupiscent fun
Without ever being perturbed
About possibly being found out,
Such a perfect spot they chose,
As no one for miles knew them, so
No harm done if nobody knows?
On their first night they lay dozing
In their mezzanine bedroom,
When an organ began playing
With a sound like sombre doom,
Assembled voices were singing
A drear hymn of bleak good news,
As if a congregation had
Gathered downstairs in their pews.
Pews that had long since been removed
And sold at a canny price
As feature benches to rich folk
Possessed by the antiques vice.
Yet there could be no room for doubt,
Those old pews were back, and filled,
Even as the singing died down
And the final chord was stilled.
Hiss and flicker of gaslights as
A baleful sermon began,
A preacher denounced wickedness,
While on their king size divan
The couple cowered, shaking with fear
As preaching gave full measure
To those who stained the House of God
Pursuing carnal pleasure.
Damned they were, and double damned who
Thought they’d easily afford
To pay for the sins of their flesh
While in the place of the Lord.
The organ struck up a discord,
Ecstatic voices were raised,
The dreadful God of vengeance being
The couple crept down from their bed,
They must settle their affairs,
Exposing themselves for judgement
By the pious folk downstairs.
But they found all was in darkness,
No preacher, no pews, no heads
Turning towards them, yet, that night,
They lay in separate beds.