In Honor of Our Dear Lay Administrators

Another "Epic Limerick" for your perusal.

I found myself mumbling in Latin,
The words more luscious than satin.
So I spoke them aloud,
In the midst of the crowd,
And that's when this story did happen:
The alb-clad lay preacher rose tall,
And gave a most sobering call:
"I feel I've done wrong,
Misleading this throng,
And piercing their souls with this awl."
At this the old woman reached down,
Picked up an awl, stained by blood brown,
She spun it about,
Beginning to shout,
"I drove all my faithful downtown!"
So I kept up my feverish pace,
Running this linguistic race,
Mumbling old prayers,
Despite all the stares,
In this dark, sterile, liberal place.
The awl was a menacing tool,
Which she used in a spirit most cruel,
When one would oppose her,
With intent to depose her,
She'd challenge that bloke to a duel.
So the awl pierced many a soul,
To defend her illicit role,
And those who survive,
Must carefully drive,
To escape the clutch of this troll.
But then, alas, she lamented,
Admitting her soul was demented,
She dropped the awl,
And discerned her call,
Te be a nun, and contented.