"Too rare pork can bring on tricky Gnosis,"
The Voice speaks in Padre's porcine ears,
"Do not trust Inquisition diagnosis.
Curare they injected caused those tears
that they proclaim as miracles. No fears
their Purgatory can instil should shake
your nerves (I Jest). Rise up, old rake, and break
your selfish satisfaction with yourself."
The Padre wakes up racked with stomach-ache
and reaches for the ham plate on the shelf.
The shelf, he then remembers, is not here
but in the galley of the Senior Mess.
"I don't need ham alone; that brings no cheer,"
he whispers to The Voice. "I confess
a fondness for sauternes, and port, and beer.
Curare's best reserved for curates old
and pensioned off. I am myself still bold,
and well positioned to save sailor souls.
I'll soon conduct the service, rant and scold,
but first I'll try the new chef's casseroles."