Soon he did grow tired of
The life of good food and strong wine,
With comfort he grew bored until,
Rejecting comfort altogether
He climbed a mountain, found a cave,
Put on a sack, and fed on roots.
His goodness soon became a sty,
In Satan’s sharp and jaundiced eye,
He sent his minions, by and by,
Why? To spite the Saint, that’s why.
They pulled his beard, and in his ear
They whispered, now we know not what,
All we see of Anthony now
Is paintings, always show him smiling
Down at devils plug and ugly,
Probably enjoyed the company.