For saints do not boast of their might

I am unsure if I’m suffering from trauma.
Or from eating a dish of beef korma.
I felt shaky all day
As if I were prey,
But the doctor says, Who’d want to harm y’?

I am unsure if I was confused
By a man whose two eyebrows were fused.
He got it in one,
By the beard was undone.
I scratched his face, just to bemuse

I guess mother feared the Old Devil
And the drunken orgies at his revels.
She warned he had hooves
And about how he moves.
Though he can seem quite charming and civil.

But it’s real men who cause us dismay
As on us sweet women ,they prey.
They may fast and pray too,
And cry, How do you do?
Run from “good” ones, don’t delay.

For saints do not boast of their might
And how they have reached to dizzy heights.
They are self-forgetting and plain
Use no-one for their gain.
Mostly they work out of sight