The Choir Girl
I have a saintly voice, the people say;
With Elder Blank I send the music winging—
I smile and compliment him on his singing—
By God, I'd rather hear a jackass bray.
I nod and smile to all the pious sisters—
I wish their rears were stung with seven blisters.
That youthful minister, so straight and slim—
I'd trade my soul for one long night with him.