We thought the cantor, sang a little dull
and sister said, “She’s weak, wont make a nun!”
and so her license we thought we’d annul
but the diocesan said, “Hush! Shoo! Run!”
“Her celibate tune is not a delict!”
but those uncanny vespers were no vow
such primal screams oft did our ears afflict
the curia didn’t listen, said, “Oh, Wow!”
so we held special sacraments; we hoped they’d see!
but she did some unreal pope-a-dope!
those cassocks she removed with just her voice
perhaps more, but that false lull now doesn’t let us be!
and we die managed! Can’t think, watch or cope!
and her hands hold our fate, there is no choice!
if only we’d defrocked that phony beau idéal
we won’t be in this mess, so piercingly surreal!
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)