As at our Church we take a turn
To man the teapot and the urn,
On Sunday mornings, rain or shine
In "rotared" pairs and in good time
Us ladies and a few brave men
We gather at the hall, and then
When Anne arrives and lets us in
Enthusiastically begin
Our chores, all learnt at first from list
So nothing "vital" can be missed.
The urn is filled, the cups put out,
Thirty one side, and then about
Another twenty for the tea.
And biscuits, most artistically
Laid out on plates in mixed array.
And orange squash, in jug, on tray.
And milk and sugar, sweetener too
Oh, there is such a lot to do!
Then look around in hope to spot
That "vital" something I forgot.
The urn is full, teapot upon
Did I forget to switch it on?
And having checked most carefully
That all is as it ought to be
The urn is safely switched to low
At five to ten to church we go.
And as the congregation sing
The verses of the final hymn,
We leave, for that is now our cue
To make our exit from the pew.
The urn is boiling merrily
Just right for us to brew the tea,
Eight teabags, nine, or sometimes more
The tea is ready then to pour.
Then one serves coffee, one the tea,
A model of efficiency.
When everyone has had their cup
Of drink, we start the washing up.
We wash, we wipe, we put away,
We clean the tops, we clear the tray.
We switch the water heater off,
And neatly fold each soggy cloth.
In essence, and poetically,
That's how we make the Sunday tea.
Janet Johnson
