Cleansing Fire

Defending Truth and Tradition in the Roman Catholic Church


The Ballad of “the Rochester”

February 10th, 2010, Promulgated by Gen
There once was this lad in a surplice,
Who regarded a dancer quite shirtless,
Prancing and dancing,
Irreverently advancing,
Towards the gal who was leading the service.
He looked with regret at the altar,
Thinking, “now, this is why Church did falter.”
The dancer then twirled,
A rainbow, unfurled;
(Server buries face in his psalter.)
“Dear God, how much longer of this,
‘Till I discover ecclesial bliss?
I hope it’s not long,
For I’m not that strong,
But maybe those Guards that are Swiss . . . “
And so this lad thought with great speed,
Praying in hope and great need,
That soon there’d appear
The Swiss Guard, “right here!”
Like a great knight on a steed.
And so the server knelt down,
Prompting the gal to then frown,
“Get off your knees,
You youthful young tease,
And help me put on my white gown.”
And so the server then stood,
Still praying that, in mercy, God would,
Accost the lay preacher,
and the fabulous creature,
Restoring to the parish some good.
And just as alb-ward he reached,
This circus by God was then breached.
His voice nobly thundered,
And the liberals wondered,
“But God was a woman, we preached!”
At this, God Himself then declared, 
(What he said made the liberals scared,)
“You’ve castrated me,
Made my chosen ones flee,
How you all should, in truth, be quite scared!”
With that all the people then knelt,
For fear that God’s wrath would be dealt.
“We’re sorry!” they cried,
And they swallowed their pride,
Noting how new-found piety felt.
With one accord they then announced,
That they had impiously pounced,
On progressive theology
And most flawed psychology.
Their agendas by God were now trounced.
“So convincingly you all confess,
To error, and heresy no less.
I show you my splendor,
Confirm my son’s gender,
And now all your souls I assess.”
The server then silently rose,
Humbly advancing past those,
Whose actions offended
The Church he’d defended,
To speak unto God modest prose.
“Dear Lord,” said the youthful young man,
“These poor liberals doubted your plan,
That you would ordain,
Not condemn with disdain,
Priests who are fellows, not wo-man.”
God the Almighty then turned,
From the people whose actions he spurned.
He looked at the youth,
Then told him the truth,
About error and lessons they’d learned:
“These people have come to me rudely,
With banners of pride flying lewdly.
For they think I desire
a Church pulled from the mire,
Whose language they condemn most shrewdly.”
“They proudly declare the pope’s error,
Not grasping there’s no bishop fairer,
than he who is ‘Peter,’
The Church’s true leader,
Following rather lay terrors.”
“I haven’t ordained them as priests,
Giving, rather, one vocation apiece.
Some are called teacher,
Not all are called ‘preacher,’
So these layfolks, I tell them to cease.”
“I want them to stop giving homilies,
All these things are are anomalies.
They should come from a priest,
Not one of the least,
Whose schooling has failed then phenomenally.”
“Because, young acolyte, listen here,
The Bible doth say it most clear:
In Timothy’s letter,
There comes not a fetter,
But a verse at which liberals do leer.”
All this the young server took in,
Much to
the lady’s chagrin,
For she knew God had spoken.
His words were not token.
They were spoken with God’s very chin.
“I do not believe, not no-way, nohow.
How I do know it to you I must bow?
For I am just splendid,
My person, you’ve offended,
In truth God this wouldn’t allow!”
“For I am a woman, and doubly blessed.
I both a child and Church have caressed.
I can be mother,
And still yet another,
The title of ‘priest’ I contest!”
“We’re not just a group of lay-folk.”
(She advanced unto God, to poke.)
Listen here ‘bub,’
You’re just a flub,
Who gets worship by men blowing smoke!”
“I have my most noble degree,
a Masters of Di-vin-i-ty.
I have more cred,
Than saints long dead,
Or any pope. Glory Be!”
“Silence, you insolent nave.
You talk to me, oh so brave!
But now I decree,
That your low degree,
Means less to me than does the grave.”
“For I am eternal, and you are not so,
For I’m the Creator – that you should know.
I make men my priests,
Your dissent you must cease.
I’ve had enough of the hot-air you blow.”
“Priesthood is manly, with force I say,
It’s something most surely not for the lay,
For my son was a man,
‘Twas part of the plan,
With which you incessantly play.”
“Hands off my Church, you bold female,
The Pope can run it – he’s now got email.
You can be nuns,
Just don’t act like Huns,
Attacking the liturgy without your black veil.”
“Or be a mother with children most fair,
With love and charity and the serenity prayer,
On your mind always,
As toys trip you in hallways,
For motherhood’s noble, I swear.”
At this the lay preacher then faltered,
Her theology massively altered.
“My Lord and My God,
I’m a liberal fraud!”
I, your great Truths, have now heard!”
With that the most fabulous dancer,
Made his most ignorant answer:
“But what about rainbows,
Of gays you’re all foes,
Your hatred spreads like a cancer!”
“Silence, you child,” God did then say.
“I’ve had enough rainbows, your prancing, your sway!
Live chastely, good sir,
Don’t lust for monsieur,
But rather for strength you should pray.”
And so the young server then saw,
The liberals embrace God’s true Law.
They noted its beauty,
Turned from the fruity,
and knelt down before God in awe.
They basked in this glory sublime,
Forgetting their plans for the mime,
Who would stand in the parish,
Diversity to cherish,
Coating all with liberal slime.

This is what happens when I have too much time on my hands.



5 Responses to “The Ballad of “the Rochester””

  1. avatar Dr. K says:

    Absolutely amazing tale!

    Sadly, it almost would take the Lord's intervention to put a stop to Rochester's problems.

    ~Dr. K

  2. avatar Mike says:


    All the limericks I've ever seen and/or heard are a mere 5 lines.

    You've created a new art form here: The epic limerick!

    Great job!

  3. avatar Gen says:

    Now I know what will be on my tombstone:

    Here slumbers a blogger of note,
    Whose rhymes have some liberals smote,
    For he made up a limerick,
    As a small, simple gimmick,
    But an epic, in truth, he hath wrote.

    Thank you, Mike. I'm indebted.

  4. Gen – You know what will be on my tombstone?
    "I made many deals in my life, but I really went in the hole on this one!"

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