As Reverend Handkerchief Snotnose-Grey
Opened his book and began to pray,
A thought crept in through the back of his head;
That he could have been home in bed instead
Of standing in an old and dusty church
Leading three old women (and a dog) in search
Of a path through the maze of mortal sin.
(Is it sin, pondered he, to steal bones from a bin?)
Oh how he longed for the Golden Age
When the ignorant bowed to the priestly sage;
When the church was flush with pomp and might—
And churchly might was unquestioned right.
When fear-filled commoners packed the pews;
And nobody criticised vicars' views.
Oh how did this state ever come to be;
That his congregation numbered but three?
(And a dog, of course.) Did he somehow deserve
To give Service with hardly a soul to serve?
Then he cursed himself for a fool and a jerk.
After all, he thought, it beats real work.
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