Orthodox nuns are out whippin’ weeds.
“Because Jesus provides, but the garden has needs.”,
Says sister Joanna, adjusting her grip
On a finely tuned 2.5 horsepower whip.
Squeezing the trigger and ripping the cord,
She’s whippin’ the weeds and avenging the Lord.
She’s whippin’ the weeds from the vegetable plot,
Dressed all in black, not matter how hot.
She’s whippin’ the weeds that threaten the orchard,
And there by that statue of God being tortured.
Conventual nuns, as a rule, are serene,
But check out the guns on sister Helene!
Adding the oil and stirring the mix
In a whimple, a frock, and a wood crucifix.
Sister Calista and Sister Brianne
Are whippin’ together whenever they can.
They whip by the fountain, they whip by the stream,
They see themselves whippin’ at night when they dream
They whip Creeping Charlie before he can creep,
They’re whippin’ themselves every eve ere they sleep.
They’re whippin’ the ragweed before it can rag,
On weekends they’re whippin’ each other, in drag.
It seems in the summer they’re whippin’ all week,
But no one whips weeds like an Orthodox Greek.
Sister Felicia holds forth in the chapel:
“This Order’s whipped weeds since Eve bit the apple,
For sins are but weeds in the landscape of life,
And weeds therefore sins, and the garden is rife.
We once had a novice, a sinner, it’s true,
Whose patch was infested with Wandering Jew!
Her garden and soul hid a snake in the grass,
So I whipped her with Scripture; the Jew I used gas.
So arise noble nuns, like Christ from the crypt,
And weed-whip those fuckers like Jesus was whipped!”
No clover, no burdock, no thistle is safe
From the orthodox nuns and their sisterly strafe
Of head-bump advanceable green nylon line,
At a two hundred forty-eight decibel whine
Of twelve hundred rpm sweeping attack,
With goggles for safety and God at their back.
Hell hath no fury like orthodox nuns
In sensible shoes, with athletic buns.
Two-stroke disciples of Stratton and Briggs,
Beating back nature with weed-whippin’ rigs.