An Augustinian Sister I am
And have been so for a lengthy exam;
My vows are to the Lamb but I feel so
Empty and weak without a druggist’s dram.
For the moment, I write verses for girls,
Instructing them to pray with their small pearls;
I endeavour to teach the world that prayer
Is the drug that makes white lines into whorls.
By Grace, I do need a medic who can
Procure the capsules in full, no less than
One thousand; I need medicine to numb
Me, to cure me, to be my harmattan.
At the sound of the three bells we did meet,
She suggested tea to soothe me and sweets;
I must say, I did oblige the offer
And now we are to have some luncheon meat.
I have been her confessor since scandal
Permeated her life like a vandal;
She tells me her sins and her transgressions
And my blessing is easy to handle.
Drugs aren’t angels, no matter how lofty
They can make one when in the sky; frosty
Is the cloud on which sits the wand’ring Lord
And he likes a tea, too, when he’s naughty.