St. Percy and St. Peregrine were sitting on a cloud,
Giggling at the people queuing for the Turin Shroud,
When suddenly they spied an angel, slim and light of tread,
A string of onions round her neck, a beret on her head.
The angel walked right up to them and fixed them with a smile,
“Bonjour messieurs,” she warbled. “May I sit down for a while?”
“Of course, my dear,” St. Percy cried, and gave a gallant grin,
And shifted sideways, closer to his friend, St. Peregrine.
“Merci beaucoup,” the angel said, and sat down with the pair.
She took her onions off her neck and laid them down with care.
“Merci encore,” she said again, ”You do not mind the stench?
Onions often smell quite strong to people who aren’t French.”
“No, no, my dear. That’s quite all right,” St. Peregrine replied.
“My favourite pong in heaven is the smell of onions fried.”
“Merci, monsieur,” the angel said. “You really are too kind,
Though everyone I meet up here is quite polite, I find.”
“You’re only new?” St. Percy asked. “Pray, when did you arrive?”
“Two hours ago,” the other said, “and I was still alive.”
The saints both said, “Oh, dearie me, that’s really very sad.”
“Merci, messieurs,” the girl replied. “Its really not too bad.”
And up she jumped and laid the string of onions round her neck,
“Merci messieurs,” she called again, continuing her trek.
“Who on earth was that?” said old St. Peregrine to Percy.
“”I think,” St. Percy answered him, “it was an angel of merci.”