Clement Moore Revisited
+’Twas the night before CRYSM-mas/ When all through the house/ Not a catechism was open/ From the Bride and Her Spouse./ The handouts were stacked on the table with care/ For a speaker from PFLAG/ Who soon would be there./
When out on the porch there arose such a howling/ I sprang from my chair, unmistakably scowling./ Away to the entrance I marched in a rage/ Unlocked the deadbolt and prepared to engage./
The moon, hung above like a ghastly marquee,/ Cast cadaverous hues on what stood before me./ For this was no sleigh, no eight tiny reindeer,/ But a chorus of bishops, in appearance quite queer.
With a stooping conductor fast waving his stick/ I knew in a moment it must be Pilar-czyk./ Like cacaphonous loons his chorus they bellowed,/ As he pointed and gestured and called to each fellow./
Now Rembert! Now Timlin!/ Now Roger Mahony!/ On Harry! On Donald! On Gumbleton, Teddy!/ To the top of the scale, every hearer enthrall,/ Now harmonize, vocalize, serenade all!/
As a chronic dry hacking from second-hand smoke,/ That billows about while it makes a man choke,/ To the end of the carol the chorus they flew,/ Without phrasing, dynamics, or even a tune./
Then, mercifully finished, Maestro Pilar-czyk/ Turned to face me with a movement so quick./ He picked up his briefcase and pushed me aside,/ And stepped through the door with a perceptible glide./
He was dressed all in lavender, from his head to his boot,/ And he cut a strange figure in his Armani suit./ A thick stack of papers were stuffed in his sack/ And he stopped, took a bow, and began to unpack./
His eyes were quite soulless, his demeanor so dour!/ His cheeks had no color, his nose caked with flour!/ His sardonic expression soon gave me to know/ He was up to no good, not just here for a show./
He finished collating it all with a flourish,/ Then handed each student a copy, to nourish/ Their gay self-esteem, for this new "feed my sheep"/ Was expressly designed to put conscience to sleep./
He gave each his blessing, then discoursed on the text,/ After which I lost hope as to what would come next./ When he finished conveying his gay repartee - / Whose foundation was laid by the bishops' decree - /
Then he strode out the door, gave his chorus a sign,/ And away they all filed in a very straight line./ But I heard them exclaim, for their new ministry,/ "Happy CRYSM-mas to all, if you're GLBT!"