'Right, so I need you to take this dung
and sculpt it into some kind of charming manse,'
says the rector, gesturing
with his one giant hand
at balding foothills of excrement.
'Three bedrooms, a scullery,
and a golden retriever on the red tiles
of the kitchen floor,
who always looks like he's smiling.
Turnips? Yes. Five,
with the little wispy bits at the bottom.'
Howard removes his circular spectacles
and wipes them on the hem
of his apron.
'If I'm honest, this might be a bit ambitious
for me to tackle all on my own.'
'Nonsense!' chuckles the rector,
and deals him a slap on the back
so powerful, he goes barrelling into the task
face-first.
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