Inquisition of an Aphorist

“Where do you worship?” he said, said he,
“I like to sleep late,” said I.
“You are slothful and sinful and probably damned,
And you’ll go to hell when you die.”
“Where do you worship?” she said, said she,
“At the shrine of my wife,” said I.
“You’ve a lecherous, lewd, libidinous lust,
And brimstone will blind your eye.”

“What church do you go to?” they said, said they,
“Depends on who’s died,” said I.
They fled — as I’d thought —for the question was right
And I gave them the proper reply.