The bishop knew his bounds and his curved sceptre
swept like a serpent up to his face
elongating his brows into wisdom beauty
but his eye wandered to the lady up front
with bubbly buttocks
and tight skirt.

Even his scriptures wobbled against
the power of adrenaline rushing
down his swollen
veins into his vesicles
where he still remained a bishop
with the diocese backing his holy grail
on the road to heaven.

With all those thoughts behind the mitre
and the dash of plumage purple
the bishop often wondered
what life would have been like
with the same spoils the church offered
and a warm woman in bed.