For the most part, your small village vicars
Are mainly just kissers and lickers…
They don’t stick it in,
Since it’s more of a sin…
Some are happy just sniffing girls’ knickers.
Tag: religion
Slip-sliding away
Kristy Brodie was well-nigh a saint,
A good catholic girl, free from taint,
Till the good life she tasted,
Declared her life wasted:
What trace of her virtue’s left’s faint!
Give thanks
That depressing old fart, Francis Xavier
Made up this code of behaviour:
Self mortification,
And no masturbation.
For wet dreams, give thanks to your saviour.
Catholic or careless
“It’s not fair!” Claire complained, with a pout,
“After going for so long without!
A few moments of bliss,
And a girl comes to this,
And me cath’lic, and somewhat devout!”
The oyster
That most sensuous shellfish, the oyster,
Is never consumed in the cloister:
It wakes base desires
In bishops and friars,
And nuns’ inner sanctums wax moister!
The image of god
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!
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!
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!”