The glory of your garden, Blessed Mother,
Was cheapened by the mandatory tour.
Some moron figured pressure on another
To say the psalms that in your song endure
Would render elevation thrice secure.
Pharisees always think that they know best
When actually their motives are impure.
In their own righteousness they all invest.
How they love putting others to the test!
Out of your wreaths they labor to make chains.
They roar when anybody dares suggest
That vanity is all their world contains.
Your garden’s in my heart, and there I flee—
To say my own free rosary quietly.