Round and broad and black and flat

Each Sunday on her head it sat

Moth-eaten and it smelt of cat

Kathleen Lally’s ecclesial hat

An accessory at every Holy Mass

On seeing herself in the looking glass

She felt refined, a touch of class

Other congregants could never surpass

She’d wear it also to confession

For fashion’s sake she’d try to freshen

It up with a Brillo to make an impression

When recounting her sins to Father Brennan

In Corinthians she had oft-times read

A woman should have a covered head

For receiving wine and communion bread

And praying for the needy, the sick and the dead

Neighbours thought her too devout

Wearing that hat every time she went out

Words of scorn were what they’d shout

But her steadfastness was never in doubt

Miss Foley said a hat’s not needed

She’d said the Pope in Rome decreed it

Advice that Kathleen hadn’t heeded

Afraid they’d see her hair receded

Prepared for when she’d meet her maker

She’d written a note to the undertaker

Give me my hat or some hair that’s fake or

The saints will know I’m a prevaricator

At Glenariffe church where her body lies

Father Brennan smiles with Irish eyes

He’d looked it up and to his surprise

To be bald is just grand, so the Bible implies