Saints in Sack

Behind the brethren's door, kids feel the pain in back.
They're having communion; they've doffed their robes of black.
Young girls and boys keep quiet; allowing them to mock,
Courts and torts; young ports are where they plug their laptops.
Giving kids rides in cars—they ain't no saints in sack.
With all four on the floor, they teach 'em how to jack.
The pope'll just turn his head and look the other way.
Newborn babies—not a lot, because most priests are gay.
When they're inside an elf, they dribble on his back.
Reaming that red door—no, they ain't no saints in sack.
The D.A. is making a case but ain't got all the facts.
Not easy to send 'em up—the Vatican redacts.

Their greens fees are paid by parishioners like you.
They tee off on preteens—score a hole in one, too.
They will pay off enough and still be getting some.
After they preach, they'll say: "See you next Sunday, son!"

Behind the brethren's door, kids feel the pain in back.
They're having communion; they've doffed their robes of black.
Young girls and boys keep quiet; allowing them to mock,
Courts and torts; pulling heads close by grabbing their mops.

Agnus dei, dei, dei. . . .

No, these guys ain't no saints in, saints in sack. . .
Blackmail you for your soul.
The dioceses help keep the police blotters dry.
No, these guys ain't no saints in, saints in saints in, saints in sack

Amen!