I met a drunk scribbler in the old town saloon
Carving limericks into his table
Bells rang in the steeple of the church right next door
As he etched as profanely as a cowhand is able.
I bought him a drink, put my hand on his shoulder
And observed aloud the dry humor
Of a man in his cups next door to the sacred
Chiseling rhymes as crass as a rumor.
He looked over at me through two yellow eyes,
frowned and then answered with passion,
"If I chose my art badly, it is no less inspired
By your interest and kindly compassion.
"I believe that if I were surrounded by demons,
A psalmist, I might be, I think.
But here, as I sit, among harping angels
Better satire I inscribe and whiskey I drink."
FELLOWSHIP, n. The company of spies.