Naught had seemed amiss with the Bishop and his choir
Until that morning in April, when the cathedral caught fire,
And out of its sanctity everyone runs,
Including the arsonists, a clique of transvestite nuns.
Then up came the firemen, hoses in hand,
Applauded along by a passing brass band,
With Chief Hoseman Reilly, limping with gout,
Leading the onslaught to put the blaze out.
Through the cloisters they charged, all hoses a’ squirt,
To extinguish the verger, and his smouldering skirt,
Then onto the vestry, enveloped with flames,
And concealing a paradox of Catholic Shames,
Where Bishop and choirboys, in harmonious enjoins,
Were fondling and embracing each other’s loins.
And who was to be found ‘neath the Bishop’s soutane
But wee Willie MacPherson ! ( Sheltering from imminent rain?)
Yea, loudly they sang, in sopranic accord,
To the praise of the firemen, and especially the Lord,
And to the policemen, who all arrived later,
Accompanied by a magistrate, and each choirboy’s mater;
And several doctors, who twiddled their thumbs,
As a surgeon from Ipswich examined the bums
Of the choirboys collective, each individual hole,
To check for invasion by the Bishop’s slick pole.
Aye, those adolescent sphincters, stretched to excess,
In all of Christendom, what scandal and mess !
And this very same cleric, today he holds Masses,
In a sectarian prison, where God blesses all asses.