Can a three-hour penance save his soul?
What once was sacred is suspect.
The proof is in the cup.
What seemed a fact is only froth.
The faithful ask “What’s up?”
St. Arbucks had a fall from grace.
His reputation’s stained.
There’s been a drop in daily mass
in chapels for him named.
St. Arbucks’ brew, once highly praised
as nectar of the gods,
is not the beverage it once was.
His holy cup is flawed.
And so a penance was prescribed
lest there be Hell to pay.
His acolytes went back to school,
while Arbucks knelt to pray.
Me thinks there is a lesson here
for more than fallen saints.
When we grow lax in what’s espressed,
we’re seen for what we ain’t.