"Cato's aunt, senile when Caesar was born,
could have sat here," thought the Padre, confined
in Jethro's Cadillac. He felt forlorn,
forgot a fifth time why he sat behind
its crusted steering wheel. "I'm driving blind,"
he sweated, leaving windows closed. "Thy Will!
Cooped up here in this ancient Coupe De Ville,
I'll sit until the sun dispels the bugs.
Oh Lord, please know I'd lift my finger; still,
malaria makes me malinger. Jugs
of Jethro's joy juice got me to this place.
He is degenerate, and needs my help
to gather up his courage and then face
authority. He is a simple whelp;
not one the warden drowned without a yelp
but one who sneaked away and came to me.
Claimed "Born Again", said I must referee
and then avowed he needed Christian aid
in judging shouldn't Sheriff set him free
since he served no more gin in Gatorade.
No less, as well, but I learned that myself
when sampling the pure juice I found out back.
If Jethro's changed, then I'm the Evil Elf.
One jug, or two, sufficed to turn sun black.
At such eclipse I fell to pray, felt slack
not in my duty but within my skull
and sought some shady glade to go annul
the P.J. fever Jethro's trick had played
upon my pious charity. To gull
the Bishop's pet! He should be spayed
by Bishop's vet. I have heard tell I've been
picked out by him to some fine day succeed
to purple silk and vintage wine. Not gin
made by a cracker whom a bull has kneed
between the ears, who gambles, gobbles speed..."
Again a dream, dreams rampant, dreams that rive
unwanted Padre. Poor man, he wakes alive:
no heaven's reservation for his pain.
No angel comes to free him from this hive
of heathens camped out on the flight deck plain.