Those priests, on priestly late night love affairs,
Sew nepotism in their merry wake,
And sons of clergy – who are on the make –
Will wash away the scent of earthly cares.
It is not right that bishops should sire heirs
When celibacy is the vow they take.
A simple promise, easy now to break,
When tempted by a strumpet’s downy hairs.
And will the priest be thrown out for his sins?
Or will redemption cast a kindly gaze?
'Twas woman let the lustful devils in,
She'll have no respite from this moral maze.
Her unmarked grave on such a lonely hill:
A fallen woman, falling further still.