A Priest

A rocking chair would dote itself

As in all respects paid in checks

But never on a sunny, Sunday afternoon

It glitters and it jingles

But of all the socks

I could never believe this two-ton fairy tale

Neither here nor there

But everywhere

Would I perchance such guilt

But only while hazing underneath a purple quilt

Indigenous to its wilt

As are all fine roses

But not without a parking ticket

Will I bury this cricket

In its vines and crimes

Nevertheless, doubtless

It'll all be divined