Merciful God, please launder Annie Locke.
Her desperate pleading drives me to despair
and Saint Ignatius' model for her thoughts
admits no air time for more needful prayers.
Let her sinner's heart be washed clean with the Tide,
and blown by gentle zephyrs in the Sunlight
and taken from the lines when it is dried,
besprinkled, ironed, hung and put to rights.
Oh grant me hyssop for my tired eyes
and blessed balms to quicken my revival
from perseverating penitence that lies -
she had no stain beyond her menstrual cycle.
Of poor Anne's merit I'd have lesser doubt
if she'd committed any sins worth writing 'bout.
