vicar in a tutu

i was minding mind business, lifting some lead off, the roof of the holy name church, it was worthwhile living a laughable life, just to set my eyes on a blistering sight, of a vicar in a tutu, he's not strange, he just wants to live his life this way, a scanty bit of a thing, with a decorative ring, that wouldn't cover the head of a child, as rose collects the money in the canister, who comes sliding down the banister, the vicar in a tutu, he's not strange, he just wants to live his life this way, the monkish monsignor, with a head full of plaster, said "my man, get your vile soul dry-cleaned", as rose counts the money in the canister, as natural as rain, he dances again, my god, vicar in a tutu, oh yeah, the next day in the pulpit, with freedom and ease, combating ignorance, dust and disease, as rose counts the money in the canister, as natural as rain he dances again, and again and again, the fabric of a tutu, any man could get used to, and i am a living sign