The patron saints are holy folk
Who represent a thing.
They really are some diverse blokes
Who don’t wear too much bling.
The patron saint of beggars
Is named Saint Nickeless.
The patron saint of guys without cucumbers
Is named Saint Pickeless.
The patron saint of sports cars
Is named, for some reason, Jen.
She drove her car into a tree
And saw how a Mercedes bends.
The patron Saint of mummies
Is bound to be uptight.
The patron Saint of lanterns
Went on a diet. Now he’s light.
The patron Saint of music
Threw a piano down a mine.
He found, at the bottom, A-flat minor.
The Saint of taxes thought it was fine.
But throughout time, the Patron Saint
Of unemployed cowboys hasn’t changed,
But I think he’s rather senile
‘Cause like his subjects, he’s deranged.
Now please excuse me readers,
This poem’s for the birds.
I think I’ll write a film adaptation.
It’ll be a play on words!
The Daily Travesty 