Daniel De Culla Poet Free verse

PRIEST AGAINST MY TASTE

PRIEST AGAINST MY TASTE
My parents thought I was a saint
Because, when I pooped, I would pray:
“Virgin of the Pillar, let me poop.”
A prayer my mother had taught me
And which worked wonders on my bowels.
They didn't know that
When I locked myself
In my decorated room
With pictures of every saint there was
I didn't pray or meditate
And even less did I study
But I played with wheat and flour
That I tried to get
From my erect and raised little .
One day, when they saw me from behind
Through the half-open door
They went crazy with joy
Because they saw what looked
Like a priest's Crown on my head
Which was nothing more than a sperm
That had flown there.
I heard them say happily:
-This boy is going to be a good priest.
Let's take him to the Seminary or Convent.
They took me by the hand
And led me to the Seminary of Segovia.
-Good morning, Father.
Here we bring you our son, Proculus
So that you may make him a good priest
Who will serve the community
For the God’s love.
"Good morning to you all."
We will do so with divine grace
And the Virgin Mary’s love.
As soon as Proculus entered the Seminary
They hung a black cassock on him
So that nothing could be seen
But his feet
With a raised point
Below his waist.
Another superior who saw him
Approached him and said:
-I liked you the moment I saw you.
From today you will be my assistant
And I will help you pass
All your subjects
Especially Religion, Greek, and Latin.
The only thing you will have to do
Is make my bed
And take care of a bird I have
That sings Gregorian chant.
One morning
After the eight o'clock mass
The priest who greeted him at the door
Aapproached him, saying:
-Good morning, Proculus.
-Good morning to you.
-The spiritual father you serve
Is very angry with you
Because you didn't make his bed yesterday.
-And I'm not going to make it for him again
Because he pulls his little bird out of his crotch
And wants me to play with it
Or, better yet, pull out my little one
So it can play with his.
-My dear son, Proculus
This spiritual father of yours
Is on the wrong path:
The holy Bible that guides him is wrong.
Stick it between the pages
Of the Song of Songs
Like a sausage
Until he comes with joy.
-Stick it, Father
In the Bible or up your own arsehole.
Or do as I do
Which sticks it in my own hole
For it is the Way of Perfection.

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