In Which The Catholics Would Appear To Be Short On Communion Wine

At St. Ann's Parish Hall, up goes my sleeve.
Persuaded once again to trade my blood
For something else, though I do not believe
That mine will save, except one life. A flood
Of fear doth overtake me ere the poke,
Though I donate my blood so often that
A spigot in my arm would be no joke.
My favorite phlebotomist at bat,
I finish up in record time, and make
Direct pressure sieg-heil before quite ten
Swift minutes pass. That's how we work to slake
The thirst for blood. And then, as it's July,
I find I've traded mine for homemade pie.