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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required A woman devoted to saints Of Easter candles and Mass incense Praised the Lord Because she had a body Worthy of merit That had already been hinted at More than once The parish priest in confession: -My daughter, what's wrong with you? -A fever, Father That pierces my heart. -Do you want me to kill you a bird Of those you raise at home? -Yes, kill it for me, Father When I lift my skirt And pull down my panties. This woman had a seven-year-old son Devoted to that priest Of whom he became an altar boy. In a winery owned by his mother The boy invited him to try A local wine. The priest got drunk From this cool wine Telling the boy, half-drunk: -If your mother doesn't change her mind I want to enjoy your pretty little ass. -By Saint Isidore! The boy replied furiously. I don't want your clapper to ring On my little ass. Are you starving, Father? Having so many bigots Who, for a little money from the collection box They will give you some of their chicken. -You're bad, son. -No, I'm worse, Father. If you come down with me, Father To the back of the cellar You'll see the wine rack we have And the best wine to taste. First, the priest started down. Behind, the boy. He grabbed a chair Breaking three of his ribs. He grabbed a club Knocking off his mustache. He tore his member out by the roots And gave it to a bat Which carried it by the beak To the Hermitage of the Sovereign Virgin. In the Archbishopric After a while Without any news of him Presuming he was missing They reported that perhaps He had left as a missionary To El Petén in the Republic of Guatemala Up to his tricks on Flores Island And Santa Elena de la Cruz.
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