I do this and The Saga of the Ancient Briton (more later) as monologues rather than songs 'cos I couldn't work out the chords.

ECCLESIASTICAL CHEESECAKE WALK

When Mrs. Fanshaw fantasized things often got romanticized.
There was, for those who liked the rock cake, no bolder cook.
By grave mistake she put cement dust in the spice and Fanshaw said, "It's very nice."
And ground his teeth and coughed and sighed and very soon thereafter died.

Now though England's a pagan land some citizens still make a stand.
While Fanshaw's faith was lapsed R.C. his wife was Christmas C. of E.
Yet down the years she had forgot what an RC was
And what funerary pomps were meet and which were poison for her sweet.

A representative of Rome was summoned quickly to the home
To explain the Catholic rights and wrongs and do's and don'ts and mays and mights.
Father Ignatius twenty-nine not only godly but divine.
Within minutes of the time he met her she found love at first sight in a biretta.

Unchecked by ultramontane guilt her love ran wild and at full tilt.
From that day forth she planned full spate to swallow up this celibate.
The very night her spouse chose to knock off in, she danced with glee upon his coffin
And by his box was not a dirge she sang but praises for the clergy.

With an ardour mostly found in latins Mrs. F. turned up at mass and matins
And, from the second row of pews, tried to communicate her views.
Rattling her rosary, in her best clothes and hosiery,
With sad unconsummated sighs Mrs. F. unfrocked him with her eyes.

Her fantasies began to grow. She thought she'd die she loved him so.
What a man so strong and chaste. What a chest, oh what a waste.
If he could only leave his pedestal and clasp her close or even better still
Inflamed with lust and satyriasis, chase her naked 'round the diocese.

But Mrs. Fanshaw's guile and gaiety, though it might have laid the laity,
Sometimes coy, sometimes salacious, never did ignite Ignatius.
Her passion always animated blew up one Sunday when he stated,
"Today I have this news to dish up. I'm leaving to become a bishop."

Mrs. Fanshaw blanched. Mrs. Fanshaw paled. Mrs. Fanshaw cried. Mrs. Fanshaw wailed:
"My love won't die. My love won't cease. How can he leave the diocese?"
She didn't even get a kick from thinking of his bishopric.
"A fallacy," she said "That's it," and threw a most unpleasant fit.

They saw her raise her head and shake it. No truth had ever seemed so naked.
Since Adam's first defoliation, no Buddha or other holy asian
Could have calmed the rage that boiled up in her breast now she was foiled.
Voicing vulgar unromanticals she kicked him soundly in the canticles.

The congregation rose in wrath to avenge this insult to the cloth.
Not lacking for a precedent, to burn her at the stake they went.
Hymn books and psalters soon caught fire. They threw her screaming on the pyre.
And she remained, though quickly slaked, ever afterwards half-baked.