The priest entered to dispell the scent of sin.
It was high noon.
"These days are numbered," said he.
"Do you think you are ready?" said he.
"Do what you must," said we.

The stage, set, looked gloomy.
Windswept. Cold. Dead.
The memory of a thousand violet orphans
Flooded his mind.
He took out the props. He lay them aside.
He began to recite:

Praise God.
Father God.
(As though He forgot his cue, he repeats).
God defends. Violet orphans flee.
All is not lost. All is again good.
Praise God.

The curtain falls.
The people were not people any longer.
The actors were not acting.
The children all were weeping.
The priest, head bowed in desperate surrender,
Took a swig of whiskey
And exited, stage right.

"These days are numbered," said he.
"Do what you must," said we orphans,
We dead folk, the exorcised.

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