The Parish Council Reply All Requiem

acoustic comedy hip hop, folk-hop, rural British satire

[Verse 1]
Reverend Richard was sipping a sherry,
Feeling quite pious and suitably merry.
Typing the newsletter, setting the date,
For the upcoming raffle and mid-summer fete.
He finished the document, spelling was checked,
A message of virtue and utmost respect.
He minimized Word and he opened the Chrome,
To browse in the privacy of his own home.
He opened a tab for his personal vice,
A website that really was not very nice.
A niche little forum of muscular chaps,
In nothing but wellies and leather ass-chaps.

[Pre-Chorus]
He meant to attach just the Sunday hymn sheet,
A wholesome addition to make it complete.
But his finger slipped down on the mouse pad of doom,
And dragged in his history right from the room!
(He's dragged the whole folder!)

[Chorus]
Reply all! Reply all to the parish domain!
A digital shortcut to absolute pain!
It chugs through the router, it flies through the wire,
Consigning the vicar to heavenly fire!
He's CC'd the butcher, he's BCC'd mum,
He's sent the whole village the state of his bum!
Oh, the broadband is buzzing, the secret is free,
A pastoral nightmare for all meant to see!
(He's absolutely ruined himself.)

[Verse 2]
Now Mrs. Miggins was baking a tart,
When the notification popped up with a start.
She put on her glasses, adjusted the screen,
And witnessed a sight she should never have seen.
The primary teacher, the local M P,
The lads down the pub with a pint and a brie.
The Women's Institute paused their debate,
To stare at a bloke called Antonio's weight.
Three hundred and fifty illicit web links,
Of terrible fetish and horrifying kinks.
The neighborhood WhatsApp is going berserk,
They're calling the Bishop to end all his work.

[Pre-Chorus]
The router is blinking, a flashing red light,
The Reverend is sweating and shaking with fright.
He pulls out the ethernet cable in haste,
But the cache is downloaded, his dignity laid waste!
(It's in the cloud, Richard!)

[Bridge]
Sunday arrives and the church bells ring out,
But nobody's coming for Jesus, no doubt.
The pews are all packed to the absolute brim,
They haven't turned up for a standardized hymn.
The Reverend approaches the pulpit in dread,
A crimson complexion atop of his head.
He looks at the choir, he looks at the flock,
He's standing in front of the ultimate mock.
He opens his mouth just to offer a prayer,
But someone shouts out from the back of the square:
"Oi, Reverend, where did you get that ball gag?"

[Guitar Solo]
(Frantic, aggressive, palm-muted acoustic chugging with a heavy bass-drum stomp simulating the relentless beating of the vicar's terrified heart)

[Extended Chorus]
Reply all! Reply all to the parish domain!
A digital shortcut to absolute pain!
It chugs through the router, it flies through the wire,
Consigning the vicar to heavenly fire!
He's CC'd the butcher, he's BCC'd mum,
He's sent the whole village the state of his bum!
He packed up his cassock, he fled in the night,
To a parish in Wales where the broadband is shite!
(He's living off-grid now, boys!)

[Outro]
So check your attachments and check your outbox.
Before you share links of unorthodox docks.
The Lord sees all things, but the parish does too,
Especially when you CC them on what you pursue.
(Keep that rhythm going. Chug, chug, chug, straight to hell.)
Fade it out, lads. The Bishop is on line one.
[Fade Out]

3931/7500

[Intro] (Right, keep that guitar chugging. Nice and tight.) Welcome to the village of Little Bumbling. Population: Four Hundred and Twenty. Secrets: Zero. Not anymore, anyway. Not since Thursday afternoon. (Lord have mercy upon us.) [Verse 1] Reverend Richard was sipping a sherry, Feeling quite pious and suitably merry. Typing the newsletter, setting the date, For the upcoming raffle and mid-summer fete. He finished the document, spelling was checked, A message of virtue and utmost respect. He minimized Word and he opened the Chrome, To browse in the privacy of his own home. He opened a tab for his personal vice, A website that really was not very nice. A niche little forum of muscular chaps, In nothing but wellies and leather ass-chaps. [Pre-Chorus] He meant to attach just the Sunday hymn sheet, A wholesome addition to make it complete. But his finger slipped down on the mouse pad of doom, And dragged in his history right from the room! (He's dragged the whole folder!) [Chorus] Reply all! Reply all to the parish domain! A digital shortcut to absolute pain! It chugs through the router, it flies through the wire, Consigning the vicar to heavenly fire! He's CC'd the butcher, he's BCC'd mum, He's sent the whole village the state of his bum! Oh, the broadband is buzzing, the secret is free, A pastoral nightmare for all meant to see! (He's absolutely ruined himself.) [Verse 2] Now Mrs. Miggins was baking a tart, When the notification popped up with a start. She put on her glasses, adjusted the screen, And witnessed a sight she should never have seen. The primary teacher, the local M P, The lads down the pub with a pint and a brie. The Women's Institute paused their debate, To stare at a bloke called Antonio's weight. Three hundred and fifty illicit web links, Of terrible fetish and horrifying kinks. The neighborhood WhatsApp is going berserk, They're calling the Bishop to end all his work. [Pre-Chorus] The router is blinking, a flashing red light, The Reverend is sweating and shaking with fright. He pulls out the ethernet cable in haste, But the cache is downloaded, his dignity laid waste! (It's in the cloud, Richard!) [Chorus] Reply all! Reply all to the parish domain! A digital shortcut to absolute pain! It chugs through the router, it flies through the wire, Consigning the vicar to heavenly fire! He's CC'd the butcher, he's BCC'd mum, He's sent the whole village the state of his bum! Oh, the broadband is buzzing, the secret is free, A pastoral nightmare for all meant to see! [Bridge] Sunday arrives and the church bells ring out, But nobody's coming for Jesus, no doubt. The pews are all packed to the absolute brim, They haven't turned up for a standardized hymn. The Reverend approaches the pulpit in dread, A crimson complexion atop of his head. He looks at the choir, he looks at the flock, He's standing in front of the ultimate mock. He opens his mouth just to offer a prayer, But someone shouts out from the back of the square: "Oi, Reverend, where did you get that ball gag?" [Guitar Solo] (Frantic, aggressive, palm-muted acoustic chugging with a heavy bass-drum stomp simulating the relentless beating of the vicar's terrified heart) [Extended Chorus] Reply all! Reply all to the parish domain! A digital shortcut to absolute pain! It chugs through the router, it flies through the wire, Consigning the vicar to heavenly fire! He's CC'd the butcher, he's BCC'd mum, He's sent the whole village the state of his bum! He packed up his cassock, he fled in the night, To a parish in Wales where the broadband is shite! (He's living off-grid now, boys!) [Outro] So check your attachments and check your outbox. Before you share links of unorthodox docks. The Lord sees all things, but the parish does too, Especially when you CC them on what you pursue. (Keep that rhythm going. Chug, chug, chug, straight to hell.) Fade it out, lads. The Bishop is on line one. [Fade Out]

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