"The padre is cerebral but not wise,
imagines he thinks well because he thinks.
His cerebellum's packed with words whose size
precludes the storing of the fine instincts
a kinder brain would harbour. He's a sphinx
whose addled riddles all contain
self-aggrandising proverbs fending pain
away and justifying pleasure trips
to wealthy men's buffets. He can explain
the hungry world away while nibbling chips."
Padre, an hour after reading his Fitness Report:
"Such acid views," says Padre, "buffalo
too many fine young men who take the trough."
Then, scenting censure in cold smiles that snow
his way, he coolly summons up a cough.
"You surely heard me wrong? Away from Clóth.
The world's bést chaplain took it on the chin."
He pauses, flashes world-class possum grin,
"I don't mean me, of course, but Baptist John.
His bishop cut hím down for being thin.
I think the wardroom film tonight's Don Juan."
Padre's Superior's Superior:
"A Senior Board debates if they should scuttle
the Padre, send him cashiered from his hitch.
If crew gets wind of this, the scuttlebutt'll
capsize us all. Command is such a bitch.
When Board attends to me, I plan to pitch
that man too tuned to God can't counsel men:
The Padre's best this fleet can use. Chagrin
consumes his days; his nights give him a past.
I'll say the blighter's qualified to win
these souls, and screw God's colours to this mast."