Sex, we have found is in with men in gowns.
There’s still lots to be learned, but lids clamp down.

Celibacy leads to bromance;
Prelates freely roam, and Rome’s stance?
When you say “no” to banns, pants come off; prey have no chance.

Butts they will pry, poke; the small fry poke.
And on high, a blind eye to small-guy pokes.
When the bells chime, they’re gettin’ blows;
Are they frettin’? No! Ratzo Joe looks askance.
Oops! There goes another rub beneath pants.

But trouble calls: we learn, behind the walls
There were tots made to squirm. . .
In thrall, bum molls.

Up top is a shifty old man—
Succeeded the Pole; once he ran
The office tasked to ban man ramming lad in the can.

Now he’s high guy, Pope,
A wise-guy Pope.
He’d let guys ball small fries. . .halt-it tries? Nope!
He let ’em keep on feelin’ nads
And make kneelin’ lads,
Thrusting members like lanc-
es; there goes a thrill-’em kid-to-prod chance.

Small problem of banged boys balloons. . .
Church skirts the courtrooms--
“Pay ’em off!” propounds Pop.
Rome’s approach to probelems: [sic]
Toss ’em a sop.