The Choir Girl

I have a saintly voice, the people say; With Elder Blank I send the music winging— I smile and compliment him on his singing— By God, I'd rather hear a jackass bray. I nod and smile to all the pious sisters— I wish their rears were stung with seven blisters. That youthful minister, so straight and slim— I'd trade my soul for one long night with him.