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.

In Which I Muse On A World In Which Henry Purcell Is God

Baroque, complex and lovely: so would be
A world where Henry Purcell was its God.
'Twould matter not if actually He
Existed or not. If real the facade
He'd place on His creation would hold fast
To fine ideals we'd strive to emulate.
If just a figment, still his unsurpassed
Oeuvre we'd dreamed up sure would mitigate
The flaws we have as creatures. And the spheres
Would elegantly vibrate -- this although
Our understanding snagged up on the gears
Of Nahum Tate's plumb awful libretto.
An artist who can transcend stuff like that
Could knock Jehovah into a cocked hat!