Clerical errors


The church is steeped in sin. No-one, more than the clergy, is so conscious of it, even obsessed by it. A great many religious people have strange sexual habits, like celibacy, chastity and marital fidelity. Thank God, there are a few among them with whom we can identify, who are apt to fall from grace, backslide (frontslide?) and yield now and then to temptation! No offence is meant to genuine saints, or even those who try hard to be good. There are plenty of lesser souls to offend. We owe much to the church. If they hadn’t invented sin, and hence guilt, then illicit and immoral activities would be a lot less fun!



A young deacon, his loins all afire,
Seduced a young girl from the choir,
With sinful intent,
Saying “If you repent,
God forgives,” as orgasm drew nigher!


Said the missionary’s wife, Mrs Bingham,
Respectably dressed in plain gingham,
“I’m terribly bored
By the church  and the Lord,
But entranced by the yoni and lingam!”


On account of his sinful condition,
A priest is, by strict definition,
Through sleeping alone,
Inescapably prone
To the nocturnal sin of emission.


a hot caucasian girl wearing a nun outfit



A young man at confession confessed,
To the damnable sin of incest.
Said the Father, “My son,
‘Tis a foul thing you’ve done:
Tell me more of her snowy white breast!”



“Bless me, Father,” said Claire at confession,
“For weakness and sin and transgression,
But heavens above,
I fuck only for love!
Do you think God might make some concession?”


Said Kathleen, in the darkened confessional,
“God forgive me! My needs are obsessional!
Said the Father, “My child,
When the flesh runs thus wild,
Give some thought to becoming professional.”


A priest’s thoughts should revolve round the deity.
Church life, however, lacks gaity.
Many, I hear,
And more too, I fear,
Share secular joys with the laity.


Divine comedy

A young catholic girl grew depressed,
Despite prayer, and the faith she professed,
For she had carnal thoughts,
And of such depraved sorts,
And they made her feel hot and distressed.

She began to feel she was possessed,
She had dreams about rape and incest,
And she woke in the night,
Flushed with guilt and delight,
By the things with which she was obsessed.

She knew well what the church teachings stressed,
About temptations sent as a  test,
But the things that she dreamed
And her fantasies seemed
To be worse than what might be confessed!

Though a pure heart beat in her breast,
Her breasts ached to be kissed and caressed!
To her mortification,
She found masturbation
At least gave relief and and some rest.

In the mirror she saw, when undressed,
She’d been quite undeniably blessed,
With a bosom and thighs
Of such smoothness and size,
She imagined men might be impressed!

So perhaps it was God’s little jest,
Having charms to compare with the best,
And all gone to such waste,
If she might never taste
Of the pleasures of which she just guessed!


A degenerate fellow called Derek,
Of  morals had hardly a sceric.
While only a boy,
He’d been taught of the joy
Of the sins of the flesh, by a cleric.


A young fellow, enrolled in Divinity,
Talks about God and infinity,
Late, though, at night
He seeks carnal delight;
A great sin and, what’s more, consanguinity!


Though the Vatican’s way is expedient,
Lust is the missing ingredient:
Sex by appointment’s
A sad disappointment
For those who’ve been all month obedient.


A young priest, his vows woefully fresh,
Once succombed to the sin of the flesh,
When there came to confess
A young girl in short dress,
Frilly knickers and stockings of mesh.


On a Sunday in March, Bishop Fry
No-one knows but the Lord perhaps, why,
Was observed in the Strand
With his dick in his hand,
Mumbling “What a good fellow am I!”


Said poor Mary, “It’s dubious honour,
This being the holy madonna:
What sort of a life
For a good Jewish wife,
To have God-knows-whose child thrust upon her!”


From the Church of the Blessed Saint Joan,
There was heard most distinctly a moan,
Which, to judge from the pitch,
Meant some blasphemous bitch
Would have plenty for which to atone!


Sing the praises of sexual martyrs!
Take Patrick the Purple for starters:
While licking the loins
Of a  nun, and their joins,
He was strangled to death in her garters.


Though she loudly proclaimed it a miracle,
Those of us more, say, empirical
Never believed
She had chastely conceived:
She was just a damned slut, and hystirical!


For a brother consigned to a mission,
The Pope may allow some coition,
With good christian men,
Or with girls, now and then
In the specified boring position.



Sister Anne to her God is not nigher,
Since baring, for all to admire,
Her organs of sex to see,
Writhing in ecstasy,
Plunging two fingers in higher!


That most sensuous shellfish, the oyster,
Is never consumed in the cloister:
It wakes base desires
In bishops and friars,
And nuns’ inner sanctums wax moister!


“It’s not fair!” Claire complained, with a pout,
“After going for so long without!
A few moments of bliss,
And a girl comes to this,
And me cath’lic, and somewhat devout!”


Have mercy, dear God, on this sinner,
(Albeit, Lord, just a beginner!)
Look down with your grace:
Bless this horse with a place,
And if possible make it a winner.




That depressing old fart, Francis Xavier
Made up this code of behaviour:
Self mortification,
And no masturbation.
For wet dreams, give thanks to your saviour.

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