Then in high glee the Devil filled a cup
And drank a brimming bumper to the pope:
Then--"Here's to you," he said, "sober or drunk,
In cowl or corsets, every monk's a punk.
Whate'er they preach unto the common breed,
At heart the priests and I are well agreed.
Justice is blind we see, and deaf and old,
But in her scales can hear the clink of gold.
The convent is a harem in disguise,
And virtue is a fig-leaf for the wise
To hide the naked truth of lust and lecheries.
"And still the toilers feed the pious breed,
And pin their faith upon the bishop's sleeve;
Hungry for hope they gulp a moldy creed
And dine on faith. 'Tis easier to believe
An old-time fiction than to wear a tooth
In gnawing bones to reach the marrow truth.
Priests murder Truth and with her gory ghost
They frighten fools and give the rogues a roast
Until without or pounds or pence or price--
Free as the fabled wine of paradise--
They furnish priestly plates with buttered toast.
Your priests of superstition stalk the land
With Jacob's winning voice and Esau's hand;
Sinners to hell and saints to heaven they call,
And eat the fattest fodder in the stall.
They, versed in dead rituals in dead language deep,
Talk Greek to th' _grex_ and Latin to their sheep,
And feed their flocks a flood of cant and college
For every drop of sense or useful knowledge.
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