I’m feeling dirty while coming clean

The priest is leering behind his screen

The soap’s nose is wrinkled, the washrag recoils:

“You deserve to be filthy, or worse, plagued by boils.”

My dog heard my misdeeds and barked to a court,

“Emancipate me, I can’t live with this sort.”

I wrote to Dear Abby, that famed problem sorter

She fainted and then filed a restraining order

I spoke to my guru, just hoping to find me

He stopped chanting and yelled, “Satan, get thee behind me.”

I spoke to my therapist, he dropped his pen

And lay on his couch with a bottle of gin

I’m quite able-bodied but much more like Cain

Categorically bad and criminally insane

I’m paying my bills with the wages of sin

My, what a soul-searing pickle I’m in