His home foreclosed in youth,
His education cut in pieces by his parents’ death,
He has wandered and seen his share
Of orphanages and foster homes,
Fed after the family dogs, turnips
To buttress his days.
His nights are spent without friends, in prayer,
And still being a virgin,
The monastery seems a perfect choice,
But there is nothing for him to give up,
And with lesions already on him,
He will gain no relief from the burden of stigmata.
Who will give him holy orders to enter,
If he has easy reason to believe heaven will be better
And the earth is nothing but fleeting pain?
The solution is in his socks,
Walking with pebbles and burdock seeds
Eternally stuffed inside his shoes,
A slight flagellation whenever he travels.
Ben Nardolilli keeps the barricades oiled and well fed here.
