Imagining his brain contains a thought
the Padre pinches pencil and inscribes
his name the way he thinks an author ought.
His sureness grows the more that he imbibes
his "I'll be published!" brew. He diatribes
against the warted wrongs his words will right...
He sees his theme: "Go, Gentile, in the Night"
looks trite upon the vellum he profanes
and sadly gives it up. He feels a blight
descend, erases out his own cinquains.
He rallies when the evening port is served,
invites assembled officers attend
how smallest things when properly observed
reveal the meanings, justify the end
our Empire's come to. "Take how we spell grey,"
our prelate prattles, "Should we therefore say
that family that sticks together is
the same that which together goes to prey?"
All stand and leave. He's their so mental whiz.