A Sister of Mercy, yet wicked and sinful,
No more than a thug in a habit and wimple.
The kids at St Peter’s never even dared whisper,
Just the sound of her voice made them cower and whimper.
Twisted, scary – beyond the law,
Sister Mary Stanislaus.
Black cape, blacker moods, a black-hearted brute,
A sinister sister in laced ankle boots.
‘Stanna’ ruled with a ruler and reigned with a cane,
Whipped with a slipper, we still feel her pain.
Haunting Catholic corridors,
Sister Mary Stanislaus.
Uniform smiles for May’s public procession,
Lessons in guilt, we prayed at confession
To be saved from the fires of eternal damnation,
Yet she was the one who needed salvation.
Deliver us from evil Lord,
From Sister Mary Stanislaus.
Sixty years on, it still gives me the shudders,
How we had to take cover from hurled blackboard rubbers.
That gnarly old woman; that hunched, angry creature,
How, in God’s name, was she made a headteacher?