The Unholy Tap

The faithful gathered, side by side,
In St. Cleansius, arms open wide.
Father O’Grime stood front and center,
A holy figure, the wafer’s presenter.

But before each child could take the bread,
He gave a tap upon their head.
A harmless touch, or so it seemed,
Yet parents winced, and eyes all gleamed.

For Father’s hands, though kind and true,
Had traces of sweat, perhaps some stew.
A pre-sermon snack, maybe fries or pie,
Left fingers slick, and spirits dry.

With every pat, a light smear spread,
From hair to wafer, white to red.
A holy meal, now mixed with grime,
Unhygienic, but right on time.

And as the last child bowed in prayer,
The congregation whispered there:
“Forgiveness, sure, but if you can,
Deliver us Purell, Amen!