Saint Upid and the Holy Purse

Oh gather round, ye merry fools,
And hear of Saint Upid’s holy rules!
He says the Lord has made it clear:
“All gold is mine, both far and near!”
He takes your purse with priestly grace,
And blesses you — right in the face!
He keeps his friends all fat and fine,
But taxes you for every sign!

Pay the Saint! Pay the Saint!
He’s pious, pure, and without restraint!
With holy greed he fills his cup,
The more you cry, the more he’ll sup!

He takes your cow, your cloak, your ale,
And writes it down as “churchly bail.”
He calls it tithe, he calls it grace,
He calls it “Heaven’s storage space!”
Yet Brother Bill and Sister Lou,
Pay not a coin, a prayer will do!
His friends all drink, his flock all kneel,
While Upid pinches every meal!

Pay the Saint! Pay the Saint!
His orange glow is heaven-sent!
He’ll rob you blind and kiss your hand,
The holiest thief in all the land!

Then Saint Upid sighed one moonlit eve,
“Oh Bambi Blondy, don’t you leave!
Your golden hair and bosom wide,
Are balm upon my wounded pride!
These sinners curse and call me thief,
Their words have brought me moral grief!
So take your holy scroll, my dear,
And whack them hard from ear to ear!”

She smiled and waved her mighty roll,
“Let law defend your saintly soul!
For none shall mock this holy man,
Whose purse is fatter than God’s own plan!”

Pay the Saint! Pay the Saint!
His mercy smells like fresh mint paint!
He takes your gold, he takes your bread,
Then claims you’re blessed because you’re dead!