Sister Anne to her God is not nigher,
Since baring, for all to admire,
Her organs of sex to see,
Writhing in ecstasy,
Plunging two fingers in higher!
Mortification of the flesh
For a brother consigned to a mission,
The Pope may allow some coition,
With good christian men,
Or with girls, now and then
In the specified boring position.
What are the odds?
Though she loudly proclaimed it a miracle,
Those of us more, say, empirical
Never believed
She had chastely conceived:
She was just a damned slut, and hystirical!
Way to go
Sing the praises of sexual martyrs!
Take Patrick the Purple for starters:
While licking the loins
Of a nun, and their joins,
He was strangled to death in her garters.
Pitch imperfect
From the Church of the Blessed Saint Joan,
There was heard most distinctly a moan,
Which, to judge from the pitch,
Meant some blasphemous bitch
Would have plenty for which to atone!
Chosen
Said poor Mary, “It’s dubious honour,
This being the holy madonna:
What sort of a life
For a good Jewish wife,
To have God-knows-whose child thrust upon her!”
Sabbath stroll
On a Sunday in March, Bishop Fry
No-one knows but the Lord perhaps, why,
Was observed in the Strand
With his dick in his hand,
Mumbling “What a good fellow am I!”
Flesh
A young priest, his vows woefully fresh,
Once succombed to the sin of the flesh,
When there came to confess
A young girl in short dress,
Frilly knickers and stockings of mesh.
Vatican roulette
Though the Vatican’s way is expedient,
Lust is the missing ingredient:
Sex by appointment’s
A sad disappointment
For those who’ve been all month obedient.
Oh brother!
A young fellow, enrolled in Divinity,
Talks about God and infinity,
Late, though, at night
He seeks carnal delight;
A great sin and, what’s more, consanguinity!