Sentence The Threehundredandfiftyseventh

 

The Suffragan Bishop of Goole, was

Famed for his brevity once, because

He sipped at his wine, declared “that's odd,

This Mother's so dry, it can shrivel a bod,

The sun's at it's Zenith, and we are below,

My entoptic visions are all that I know,

Amen!”

Sentence The Threehundredandfiftysixth

The abrasive Bishop of Goole,

Has only one Golden Rule:

If the asterism glimpsed in the dead of night,

 

Is the entoptic alligator of mythical might

Who will hunt him down and bind him tight,

'Tis time for a bowl of Gruel, me bhoys,

'Tis time for a bowl of Gruel,

Begorrah!

Sentence the Threehundredandfiftyfifth

The Bishop of Goole is a Hoot,

With entoptic visions to Boot,

A gamergate Queen,

Whose vagaries mean,

That his Chaplain's a ninnyhammer Fruit,

Begorrah!

 

Sentence The Threehundredandfiftyfourth

The valetudinarian Primate of Goole, 

To his devoted sewer Mrs Kitty OToole:

"You may be one of the Seven Sidereal Sisters,

Who wed the Seven Punalua Misters,

But don't you go reading my tea leaves and treating me like a doddery ould fool,

Begorrah!"

 

Sentence The Threehundredandfiftythird

The avuncular Primate of Goole,

To the tessellated Father O'Toole:

"There may not be a quorum,

But I won't Cockallorum,

Apricity shall not be a Fool!"