YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE, latin hummer
As if your vow of silence, meant to keep worldly pleasure-loving novices such as yourself mute and in fear of THE LORD, little Ethy, in fact meant nothing to you, you are at it again, bursting out with your Kyrie before we are even half through with the peas.
If there is one thing we can not abide inside this HOUSE OF GOD, young songbird, it is things done out of order, such as fish broth on Thursdays, which as everyone knows is beef and potato day. Keep the Kyrie in the Kirche and the Agnus in the esophagus, if you know what we mean, and no more loud longing sighs as you gaze upon the portraits of the martyrs, either, you little weirdo.
Imagine them in their glory looking down at you as you weed the carrots and weep to sing the litany, how truly embarrassing it must be for all of those holy saints in heaven to see a little pissant half-monk such as yourself abusing his vows AND the musical scales at the same time.
Ha ha ha, there he goes, running off to Abbot Spock Bockum again, as though the reverend Abbott has time to nurse babies. Although he does have the boobs for it, come to think on it. Ethernan, what an intolerable little ninny, and his hoeing is for shite.
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