His hair is not so long
And his garments are somewhat stylish,
His house is simple
And his social calendar is not stellar,
His asceticism is secret
And his prayers are not advertised on his sleeve,
His politics are not organized
And he has a quiver full of single issues,
His philosophy is overthrown by theology
And his best thoughts are for the Trinity,
Not modern or fundamental.
His college failed him, where Christendom's forgotten,
And he reads now, auto-didactically,
Not au courant.
His wife is pretty, and she forbears him,
And they’ve learned to look forever,
Not at Cosmo.
His daughters are pretty, and they tolerantly obey him,
And are set, in comedy, for nuptial glory,
Not for irony.
His philosophy is meant for prayer and breath,
And he yearns for the healing of soul and earth,
His aesthetics are Christian, and thus not Derridean,
And he savors the fields, primavera, and the gift of Irene,
Not a champion for Duchamp.
His obedience is to patriarchs,
And though history has oft disappointed,
Not despaired of truth,
Blessed are the meek,
For they shall inherit the earth.