I am a prelate monster or a scoutmaster whose genitals
Are embedded in a lad’s head or where’s outgassed a scent that ills
I blow the thing that’s low-swinging; at same time keeping sentinel
If they push back on my attack, I might dose ’em with Fentanyl

I tell the boys I’ll give them toys if they will give my shaft a pull
I show ’em pix devoid of chicks, so explicit and graphical
As they explore I’m craving more hand action, ’cause I’m hot, enthused
Thus I corrupt; when I erupt abruptly, such a lot o’ juice!

Let’s take the case where I’ve been placed in a school by the Vatican
They turn their heads while I “earn” head and leave lads with a battered can
In short, in matters clerical, I am not penitenti-al
I am a prelate monster; a mobster’s more reverenti-al

In short, in matters clerical, I am not penitenti-al
I am a prelate monster, and my “monstrance” is my genitals

Scoutmaster hikes include the tykes, and we do a compare o’ rocks
But then at night, with my flashlight, I site ’em on my pair o’ rocks
A merit badge I’ll slap on “Madge” when he’s my ersatz gal to buss
I’m using words beyond grade third that teach my little pal to cuss

In both cases, in both places, we’re sayin’, “Boys, clothes doffin’, please!”
Ours likewise gone, then we hop on and garner a get-offin’ squeeze
We might dicktate [sic] that “it’s time, mate, for a movement of chin to floor
We’ll take you to locations you ain’t likely to have been before!”

Said Mahony and Law, e.g., “We’ll cover up the sin galore.”
The BSA says, “Lads who’re gay, stay ’way!” Yet lets peds. in the door

Each of us sports—in one case shorts—organization’s uniform
We often doff it to get off ’n’ show: little boy blew the horn
In short, in matters clerical, I am not penitenti-al
And I’m a ’master monster, and I must always keep sentinel

In short, in each outfit, boys are taught to be reverenti-al
But we’ve scout mitts and god-tout mitts fixed firmly our genitals

The boys begin to learn that skin can encompass a “javelin”
We keep ’em clammed up so no stand up, we, before judge gavelin’
In church and scout, we can’t come out; our masters would be scared o’ that
So closeted and cosseted are we, but some lads dared t’ rat!

We were just like a Ma Supe dyke running free in a nunnery
She’d have her pick of any chick, while we went on a bum-spur spree
Reports emerged of how we’d scourged our oaths; the news was shattering
Low levels purged; open the purse, disburse and curse gelt’s scattering

For my missalary/merit-badgy knowledge, still, I’m sucky and boys pleasure me
So those on top have got to pop for payoffs in a treasure spree
Be still some weren’t and spilled the dirt, then the press became sentinel
Outed the monsters at all levels, none was penitenti-al

In short, then, each outfit, turns out, was none too reverenti-al
Our cover blown, the world is shown that we were on a “pedostal”