Lemurian City of Ladies

In celebration of all the irishness here tonight, I will perform a poem based on a favorite childhood joke.

Himself Went into Confession, and knelt in the Holy stall.
He said, “Father, forgive me, for I have sinned – shall I start with the great or the small?”
The Father said, “Now listen, son, I’ll tell you where to begin,
We’ll save the best for last, and you start with the smaller sin.”

“Well, Father, me brother has a farm, and he brings me meat for me dish,
And I eat it on a Friday, for, God Help Me, I can’t stand fish.”
“Now God doesn’t care,” the Father said, “if himself owns a couple of dairies.
You can’t eat steak on a Friday, so that’ll be three Hail Marys.

Now tell me about the other sin, though I fear for the state of your soul.
If it’s any worse than the first one, you’re looking at Hell’s black hole.”
So himself said, “It’s my neighbor, she looks like that Sharon Stone,
“With lovely blonde hair and a killer shape, and she just won’t leave me alone.

“Each day when I’m making my dinner, I see her out on her lawn,
“And, Father I swear she has nothing at all but little bikini pants on.
“She’s giving me lustful thoughts, and Father, I’m in such a state,
“For here I am a married man with more than enough on me plate.

“I’m having to fend for meself these days, while me wife is at her mothers’,
“The old lady’s sick, and the worst of it is, me wife has four big brothers.”
The Father scratched his chin, and then he nodded and said,
“Three Hail Marys is not enough, I’ve got to get into your head,

“There’s a trick we priests have often used, which I’ll pass on to you,
“You say to yourself these powerful words, until you believe it is true –
“’You’re not a lovely young girl, says you, you’re a withered and wrinkled old crone.’
“If it worked for me with Sophia Loren, it’ll work with this Sharon Stone.”

Next Friday came and the Father was passing down the street.
He thought he’d call in and see if himself was eating meat.
The door was standing open, so the Father went inside,
And found your man in the kitchen, and crept up to his side.

Himself was cooking his dinner as out of the window he stared,
At a lovely young woman sunning herself, and his lips were moving in prayer.
And this is what the Father heard, as himself reached for the dish…
“By the Holy Crook of St Patrick, you’re not a steak, you’re a fish.”