When I’m a bishop, I’ll communicate
With anyone who wants a wafer, mostly
Vanilla, but not requisite. If sin,
If stainless as a watch’s crystal, same:
Remission if your substance is like mine
Or if it’s not, if con or trans or bland
As angels fallen and they can’t get up:
But not till I’m a bishop. As a dean,
An 'umble shepherd, pastorally blue,
A spelunker who lost his ball of twine,
I am not worth attending to: I bleed
And count my corpuscles. We are too few,
Too scattered, and too thick about the ears.
I’ll call some Council, maybe. But not yet.
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