Postulant gleanings, smugly smother;
themselves, recused of all but shame,
and, grinning, welcoming all others
to lust and pander to the same.
Their shriveled hands with guilty prints
have satisfied their share of grasping
little ones so frightened, whence
they licks their lips, while one’s left gasping.
Forced to lie and to pretend
that all is well in home and pew,
but soap can ne’er these stains amend
nor memories of hope renew.
Cry out to he whose son was pricked
by lords and teachers of the cloth,
his first-fruits life no parlor trick
his vassals, now are we, betrothed.
When turns the tide and justice breathes
its wind of life and sanctity,
these little ones so bruised, relieved
shall live, their due reward, to see.