The Penance For The Peas Poem by Sidi Mahtrow

Now all you sinners come this way
Feel the distress as you pass the day.
How is it, we all ask,
'That taking peas is no easy task? '

For you see it clear as the morning sun
As your new day has begun,
Cups of coffee and other potables
Whistle wets are most agreeable
Down the hatch they pass
Without concern or dispatch
Yet, they cause us not to pee
Till afternoon when go wee,
And other drinks in abundance go
Yet through the bathroom door no liquids flo.

Till, it's late in the eve
When a pause is taken for your 'daily' pee.
Then, off to the sport of the evening when perhaps a glass
Of port, bubbly or just water the whistle pass.
After comes eleven in the night and the cap
Rest upon the head for a nap.

Then the time of woe begins
As its up to pee, the message the bladder sends.
Repeating the urgency of the flow
As rapidly, one must to the bathroom go.
No peace, or pease,
Or peas, or pees
Will drive the demon from our back
It's an epinephrin attack.
From the tiny adrenal gland
Its presence known to every woman and man
Sitting there so smug
Atop the kidney like a slug.
The bladder, it does command.
Incessant is the message plan.
Awake, Awake, Awake, its time to go!
Is the coding for the nocturnal flow.

The patron Saint of Peter Pindar's poem
Or John Wolcott of the pseudo born,
Is taking revenge on such as we,
As up we go, to take our ever-present, nocturnal pee.

For Saints are not to be denied
Regardless if the peas be boiled or dried.
Penance must be paid
For sins that are by others made.

So read the following poem by Petery
And see if you find peace in your misery.

(The Pilgrims and the Pease
(a true story))

A brace of sinners, for no good,
Were ordered to the Virgin Mary's shrine,
Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood,
And in a fair white wig; looked wondrous fine.

Fifty long miles had these sad rogues to travel
With something in their shoes much worse than gravel;
In short, their toes so gentle to amuse,
The priest had ordered pease into their shoes:

A nostrum famous in old Popish times
For purifying souls that stunk of crimes:
A sort of apostolic salt,
That Popish parsons for its powers exalt,
For keeping souls of sinners sweet,
Just as our kitchen-salt keeps meat.

The knaves set off on the same day,
Pease in their shoes, to go and pray:
But very different was their speed, I wot:
One of the sinners galloped on,
Swift as a bullet from a gun;
The other limped as if he had been shot.

One saw the Virgin soon – peccavi cried –
Had his soul whitewashed all so clever;
Then home again he nimbly hied,
Made fit, with saints above, to live forever.

In coming back, however, let me say,
He met his brother rogue about half way –
Hobbling with outstretched bum and bending knees,
Damning the souls and bodies of the pease:
His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brow in sweat,
Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet.

'How now, ' the light-toed whitewashed pilgrim broke –
'You lazy lubber! '
'Odscurse it! ' cried the other, '‘tis no joke –
My feet, once hard as any rock,
Are now as soft as blubber.

'Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear –
As for Loretto, I shall not get there;
No! to the Devil my sinful soul must go,
For dam'me if I han't lost every toe.

'But, brother-sinner, do explain
How ‘tis that you are not in pain:
What power hath worked a wonder for your toes:
Whilst I, just like a snail, am crawling,
Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling,
While not a rascal comes to ease my woes?

How is't that you can like a greyhound go,
Merry as if nought had happened, burn ye! '
'Why, ' cried the other, grinning, 'you must know,
That just before I ventured on my journey,
To walk a little more at ease,
I took the liberty to boil my pease.'

John Wolcot,1738- 1819