He shat his pants every other day of the goddamn week
Not the most gracious way to speak, perhaps
However, a dance in his pants ain’t nothin’ but the truth
An interrogation going on throughout, in ‘n’ around his crumpled ol’ body – shoddy circumstances to say the very least
A priest first ‘n’ foremost; a creator who obediently managing to dismantle our innermost secrets
The ever-dependable host on the halfway hill
Still inside, for what seems like all of eternity
Spill, goddamnit, SPILL!!
‘Til left dry inside, dutifully prepared to go all over again
Only left with his own harrowing inadequacies to bare right this minute
No such sinner; untapped wine, takeaway dinners to make even the fattest man appear very nearly concerned
Seems Fr. O’ Reilly spurned his chance
By the hand of God, in a disgusting manner of speaking
“Christ Almighty, where is that toilet-roll!?”
Seems it crept on up inside his soul