My father laid the bricks. My brother mixed the mortar.
My mother baked the bread for the cloistered order.
My sister sang the hymns. Her lover strolled the garden.
Unlike the saint, she did not receive pardon.
He told a lie. The lie took hold.
Torment and treachery began to unfold.
Her child was born under harvest moon.
The hounds of hell began to croon.
They said she was a witch. She couldn’t be his wife.
He said Hale Marys for the rest of his life.
All because passion had scorched his soul
For unholy DNA they torched her whole.
**note** hail vs. Hale: see comments 🙂