The Roadkill Pastor

12 May

Not to be confused with roadkill pasta. Pass the parmesan…

He goes out on weekends and lighter week-nights
Up and down A-roads, looking for death
Then when he finds it, he parks in a layby
Takes his shovel and a bottle of water
Walks to the corpse and gently he lifts it
Carries it off to the side of the road

He won’t wear a mask or gloves on his hands
He’ll never dehumanise his work
Blood, guts and gore, the least of his worries
He’s seen and handled it all before
He finds a spot and he buries the body
Pours holy water upon the spot

Back at his car, he drives to the next one
Cat, fox or deer, he buries them all
With each he gives a mumbled prayer
Different words, every time
Police turn a blind eye, they’ve stopped him before
They’re just glad there’s no more like him.

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