The Prelate and the concubine,
Were passing in the street,
His piety was plain to see,
Her clothes were indiscrete.

"Young maiden," said the Prelate,
His voice a haughty sneer,
"I am afraid your buxom trade,
Cannot be practiced here."

"But privy why?", the maid replied,
Inclining to rebel,
For she was late and might frustrate,
Her waiting clientele.

The Prelate, stepping closer still,
Flashed malice in his eyes,
His pretense fell and did dispel,
Civility's disguise.

"My wayward girl! That hallowed streets,
Should suffer bawds and scolds!
The dignities of Shallamese,
Are not so freely sold!"

For due retort, the whore did snort,
And shook her pretty head,
"A pharisee's hypocrisies,
Cannot buy loaves of bread."

"Hypocrisy!?" the Prelate screamed,
Blood boiling in his cheeks,
"You'll listen well or suffer hell,
When e'er a Prelate speaks!"

At that the prostitute did pause,
Her smile looming large,
"We could be kin the way you sin,
Though I've the sense to charge!"


Penned by my hand on the 3rd of Aeguary, in the year 453 AF.