gistfile1.txt

I enter piously the shrine
--Enshrouded, meek, in terry cloth--
To conduct rituals divine;
Alone, but for a moral moth.

The porcelain font, demurely veiled,
Summons me from its tiled apse.
Sabbath evenings, it’s oft regaled
Me through its copious tap.

The water’s drawn, and so am I.
My holy robes are swift cast off;
There in perfumed water I lie,
And revel in the ivory trough.

I, priestess here, anoint my flesh
With sacramental salts and oils,
And find myself renewed afresh,
Made pure, relieved of the day’s toils.

Alas, I’m visited by that moth
Who dares disturb my sacred rite.
He noticed not the deadly froth,
So smitten by the candle light.

With one swift swat, he joined my bath,
And there he met his damp demise.
Though woe is he to loose my wrath,
Saints be praised he’d been baptized.

For Mike, who requested a sequel involving bubble baths, soaps, and squeaky clean moths.

DISCLAIMER: This is in no way representative of my actual bathing experience, nor does it incriminate me in the deaths of any winged creatures. PETA need not be informed