The Service Where We Drown the Saint (Crapulence)

Lyrics

[Intro]

[Verse 1]
On this chill March 17th, in our salt-stained chapel at Point Nemo,
I, Reverend Goss, stand before the makeshift altar,
the tarnished brass chalice gleaming faintly under the shamrock window.
Saint Patrick, born circa 385 AD, captured at sixteen,
escaped slavery to bring faith to Ireland's green shores.
His Confessio speaks of sinners, unlearned and despised,
yet here we gather, far from any emerald isle.

[Chorus]
Crapulence, from Latin crapula, the holy stupor of excess,
the ale that drowns the saint in waves of indulgence.
We raise the chalice, watered-down, a nod to tradition,
but the twins sit still, eyes wide, abstaining.
No potent brew for Bouba and Kiki, no overfull cups.
Just the sharp tang of sea salt, the musty wool cloaks.

[Verse 2]
In the Annals of Ulster, compiled around 1498,
monks brewed their feast-day ale, leading to that spiritual abandon.
A biting wind at 10 degrees Celsius rattles the prayer book,
its cracked leather spine holding words of Patrick:
"I am Patrick, a sinner, most unlearned."
We ring the rusty hand bell at dawn, 6:30 AM,
the gray Pacific light filtering through.

[Bridge]

No corned beef here, just boiled cabbage and salted fish,
shared in the cold after prayers.
Crapulence warns us: the outflow of too much,
the illness after the feast.
Yet in this isolation, we drown not the saint,
but our solitude in quiet remembrance.

[Verse 3]
The green cloth drapes the altar, damp from ocean spray,
no vehicles rumble, no roads lead away.
Patrick's quote echoes: utterly despised by many,
but here, on Point Nemo, we honor without excess.
The twins watch, partake not, their innocence a shield.

[Outro]

So let us reflect, in this drafty room,
on crapulence avoided, the saint preserved.