A New York bus struck down a man,
Who writhed in agony;
A priest! A priest! he loudly groaned,
To say last rites for me.
The crowd stood silent, no one stirred
Or seemed to understand
Until an ancient gentle Jew
Held up a wrinkled hand.
I'm not a priest, he softly spoke,
No Catholic am I,
But maybe I can comfort him
And help this poor man die.
For fifty years I've lived behind
Saint Catherine's parish church
And heard each night the litany
They endlessly research.
I've never ever understood
Its meaning, I confess,
But let us see if it may now
Relieve our friend's distress.
He knelt beside the victim and
Began to intonate:
Under the G . . . it's thirty-four . . .
Under the B . . . it's eight . . .
John T. Baker