A Line-o'-Verse Or Two

Ambrose the anchorite old and grey Larruped himself in his lonely cell, And many a welt on his pious pelt The scourge evoked as it rose and fell. For hours together the flagellant leather Went whacketty-whack with his groans of pain; And the lay-brothers said, with a wag of the head, "Ambrose has been at the bottle again." And such, in sooth, was the sober truth; For the single fault of this saintly soul Was a desert thirst for the cup accurst, A quenchless love for the Flowing Bowl. When he woke at morn with a head forlorn And a taste like a last-year swallow's nest, He would kneel and pray, then rise and flay His sinful body like all possessed. Frequently tempted, he fell from grace, And as often he found the devil to pay; But by diligent scourging and diligent purging He managed to keep Old Nick at bay. This was the plight of our anchorite, An endless penance condemned to dree, When it chanced one day there came his way A Mystical Book with a golden Key.