A clergyman – once long ago –
Knew all the things there were to know.
He wasn’t boastful, not that sort;
Serenely competent one thought.
Except that he was always hatching
Plans to stop himself from scratching.
But nothing worked and all the more
His nether regions felt all sore
With no clear cause, until the itch
Eventually reached such a pitch
The holy man just couldn’t bear
To put on any underwear.
No way, however, you could tell:
His over-garment hid it well;
His underpants were in a sense
Surplice to requirements.
It meant he didn’t need to shirk
The least bit of his holy work:
It mattered not that all the while
He strode about commando style.
So no one was at all surprised
To hear he had been canonised.
Across the world now people bless
The name of dear St Nickerless.
