Motel “preacher,” motel preacher, in the same room
you have “shriven” girls and ridden them dog-style.
As a game you name chamber where you’ve lain “dame room,”
where you pump ’em while plumping your purloined pile,

It’s a pile pared from your fleeced sheep, motel preacher—
as it is said: fools and their money soon part.
Many schemes have you wrought to con poor schleps;
you live high there; they eat dry fare,
such as dog kibble, ’cause, motel preacher,
they dole bankrolls to you, who’re holed up with some tart.

It’s your guile that lets you fleece sheep, motel preacher.
In the fleece of she parishioners, your dart.
And you scheme, too, to steam through back door, men’s. . .
make ’em lie there while you pry there.
Mumbling god-drivel con, motel preacher
with doled bankrolls, cornholing where the buttocks part.

Motel preacher, mo’-gelt leecher.
Motel preacher, b’low-belt seeker.