Once Satan and a monk went on a “drunk,”
And Satan struck a bargain with the monk,
Whereby the Devil’s crew was much increased
By penceless poor and now and then a priest
Who, lacking cunning or good common sense,
Got caught in flagrante and out of pence. 
Then in high glee the Devil filled a cup
And drank a brimming bumper to the pope: 
Then—­“Here’s to you,” he said, “sober or drunk,
In cowl or corsets, every monk’s a punk. 
Whate’er they preach unto the common breed,
At heart the priests and I are well agreed. 
Justice is blind we see, and deaf and old,
But in her scales can hear the clink of gold. 
The convent is a harem in disguise,
And virtue is a fig-leaf for the wise
To hide the naked truth of lust and lecheries.

“And still the toilers feed the pious breed,
And pin their faith upon the bishop’s sleeve;
Hungry for hope they gulp a moldy creed
And dine on faith.  ’Tis easier to believe
An old-time fiction than to wear a tooth
In gnawing bones to reach the marrow truth. 
Priests murder Truth and with her gory ghost
They frighten fools and give the rogues a roast
Until without or pounds or pence or price—­
Free as the fabled wine of paradise—­
They furnish priestly plates with buttered toast. 
Your priests of superstition stalk the land
With Jacob’s winning voice and Esau’s hand;
Sinners to hell and saints to heaven they call,
And eat the fattest fodder in the stall. 
They, versed in dead rituals in dead language deep,
Talk Greek to th’ grex and Latin to their sheep,
And feed their flocks a flood of cant and college
For every drop of sense or useful knowledge.”

“I beg your pardon,” softly said the monk,
“I fear your Majesty is raving drunk. 
I would be courteous.” 
                      But the Devil laughed
And slyly winked and sagely shook his head. 
“My fawning dog,” the sage satanic said,
“Wags not his tail for me but for my bread. 
Brains rule to day as they have ruled for aye,
And craft grown craftier in this modern day
Still rides the fools, but in a craftier way;
And priestcraft lingers and survives its use;
What was a blessing once is now abuse: 
Grown fat and arrogant on power and pelf,
The old-time shepherd has become a wolf
And only feeds his flocks to feast himself. 
To clink of coin the pious juggler jumps,
For still he thinks, as in the days of old,
The key to holy heaven is made of gold,
That in the game of mortals money is trumps,
That golden darts will pierce e’en Virtue’s shield,
And by the salve of gold all sins are healed. 
So old Saint Peter stands outside the fence
With hand outstretched for toll of Peter-pence,
And sinners’ souls must groan in Purgatory
Until they pay the admission-fee to glory.