Now and again a man of cloth
turns, late at night, into a moth.
Attracted by electric lights
he rises to exotic heights.
When night gives way to a new day
the man comes back, he needs to pray,
as this is his true destiny.
(A boring job, if you ask me) .
Of course, a life with the good book
beats working as a Salvo cook,
but why the need to metamorph
into a rather useless dwarf,
with wings not made for height or speed?
Perhaps some strange, perverted need,
to balance goodness against sin
while God determines who shall win?
So, in my search for a delusion
I've now arrived at the conclusion:
A moth inside the House Of God
is -to some folks- a trifle odd.
If you can't find Man o' the cloth
you can be sure he's in the moth.
Herbert Nehrlich
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/man-of-the-cloth/
