Wednesday, October 14, 2009

The Room Called Toorahree

The mountains steep, the valley wide
A place where time was tame
A monastery stood alone
St. Stutgal was its name.

The monks, they say, were happy there
Their vows had made them strong.
And, lo, there was this special room,
A room that knew no wrong.

Oh Father Phillip, tis my right
Please grant me sanctuary
It’s my time for the special room,
The room called Toorahree.
The room called Toorahree
Unlock its doors and seal me in
The room called Toorahree

For once a year, a brother’s right,
Behind that hallowed door.
Named after Father Toorahree,
Five hundred years before.

A place where deeds could all be done
A room of privacy.
A room a brother could indulge
A harbored fantasy.


Brother Winston came to see
The holder of the key.
He said to Father Phillip, “Sir
Prepare the room for me.”

And Father Phillip did comply
And asked what he required.
“Banana, orange, and apple, friend,
Is all that I desire.”

The produce found, the door then locked
And Phillip went to bed.
His room next to the Toorahree
Where Brother Winston slept.

The sounds that night were strange and loud
Behind the room’s locked door
The Father had a restless sleep.
Indeed, his sleep was poor.


A rooster crowed, the sun it rose
And Phillip, bleary eyed,
Unlocked the door, let Winston out,
And took a peek inside.

The fruit, he saw, had changed their shapes.
Their colors hard to see.
What Winston did was his own right
In the room named Toorahree.

This scene, it did replay itself
For twenty-three long years
Poor Father Phillip bought some plugs,
Protection for his ears.

The sounds grew worse as seasons passed
The fruit, mangled puree.
Till Father Phillip had enough
And said, “This was the day.”

Phillip said to Brother Winston
“You must tell me now.
The time you spend in Toorahree,
What do you do, and how?”

Winston smiled and told the Father
“Please take this to the grave.
The things that I will tell to thee
Might seem a bit depraved.”


Our Brother Winston did confess
And Phillip listened well.
The tale the brother told to him,
Dark as the deepest well.

When Father Phillip died, they say,
His lips did not reveal
The secrets that were loosed that day
Are in his coffin, sealed.


©2009 Warren Baker

(Author's note: This is based on an old joke I heard years ago, and much to my wife's despair, I love to tell it whenever I can. Please exercise caution when telling this story as it often incites the listener to violence toward the teller.)

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