A Priest named Pat, often tipped his hat. Outside of robes, Costume and pray. He cast a Friendly way. Pat so old, as the old birch tree, planted before, he Came to be. Daily he walks beneath the leaves, wondering when, The lord he will see.
An apparition: a young sweet boy, wanting to toy. Beneath the Tree they stood so still, no words exchanged; Evil Appeared. A Behemoth of youth, with the head of a goat; its Swill of horns, Cutting his throat.
Hopeless he stood, watching the boy take his life. There Was no Toy. His hands both cut with the cross of Christ – Blood Spilled Upon the watching boy. A hekel of laughter, with a tone so deep, It shook the roots; of the old birch tree.
For Holy, Pat wanted to be; but akin with evil, and blasphemous Lust, his aspirations too grand, for the lord to trust. Now he lies Beneath the tree; blade in hand for all to see. Laying cold, with Roots entangled. The boy and the birch – peacefully watch. Pat Now, eternally strangled.