The choir’s mewling dips low,
And is raised back up by loving hands.
Bestowed upon them his grace,
Soft nectar for their sides.
Double knots and silk collars,
Frilled white dresses on the girls,
They seem to sink in record time,
Adorned by practiced, innocent chastity.
And when they finally meet their key,
In gold or silver, sent with love,
Bowing their heads they walk back inside,
To obey the every whim of their ordinance.
Like flocks of bird they come flowing in,
To restful sheep along on the pews.
And each alone in their pleasant song,
They dip low with each passing note.
