Perfection is like a cathedral

The one with a bar for a graveyard nearby

The one that looks like an abandoned castle 

The one whose doors reek of slave labor

Instead of a bishop it only has Oakley, an old drunk

Who sleeps in a bunk full of junk and dried up, aged spunk

It was a place for Oakley to drink and cope, 

Instead of reaching for the rope

But who else to lead worship in St. Walburga’s if not him

Inside the cathedral a grim corridor meets you

To the side you can see dead plants, vomit and cockroaches 

From the other side a gust of wind approaches

It’s from the broken window used for “ventilation”

Father Oakley was always known for his innovations

He once lifted himself off the ground to fly to the sky

In reality he just jumped out of the second story window 

Per aspera ad astra I suppose

At the other end of the corridor the nave awaits

The altar is the only thing that gives this place hope

It wasn’t just clean, it was spotless,

Not a speck of dust or dirt to be seen

It was flawless 

Radiant table of excellence

After a few steps it called out to Mordecai

He stopped and started listening to the silent melody

After a few seconds it started getting louder

In less than a minute they became deafening screeches

Mordecai started running

Grasping, grappling, grabbing onto the rotten oak benches

He headed straight for the raggedy doors 

Trying hopelessly to break them open he shrieked for help

Quickly he’ll realize that he’s stuck in hell

Stuck here forever, he’ll keep Oakley company

Until the next poor soul decides to seek the altar

The radiant table of excellence