You're a saint, like Saint Lawrence the grilled,
So patient, so calm, so medium-willed.
Like if someone set you on fire at brunch,
You’d still finish your eggs and ask for some punch.
You’d make small talk with your blistered face,
And critique the seasoning with delicate grace.

You're a saint, like Saint Drogo, no doubt,
The patron of baristas and monks with gout.
You live in a hut made of single-origin beans,
And whisper affirmations to your French press machines.
You ghost everyone at parties, but not out of hate,
You just transcend small talk at a metaphysical rate.

Oh, you're a saint! (Glory be!)
Your vibe is strange divinity!
Like Saint Bibiana who cured the possessed,
But also yelled at pigeons while under duress.
You walk through the world like it owes you rent,
And carry a relic made of pocket lint.

You're a saint, like Saint Simeon the Stylite,
Who sat on a pillar to avoid social fights.
You’ve emotionally distanced with such finesse,
You RSVP "maybe" to your own address.
You speak only in riddles and ceiling tile lore,
And your therapist gave up and became a florist.

You're a saint, like Saint Quiteria the bold,
Who fought Roman armies and wouldn’t fold.
You once decapitated a Jamba Juice sign,
For forgetting your wheatgrass for the eighth time.
You fight for justice, but only in malls,
And you own three swords, but only use them on walls.

Oh, you're a saint! (Bless your mess!)
A whirlwind of divine regress!
Like Saint Ursula with her thousands of friends,
You plan potlucks that never quite end.
Your holiness is loud, confusing, and sweet,
Like a Gregorian chant with an off-tempo beat.

I mean… Saint Gertrude’s the patron of cats and fear of rats, right?
That’s you. That’s SO you.
Like, you feed every alley cat but scream if they blink weird.
Your duality is blessed. Or cursed. Or both?
Either way, your aura smells like sardines and eucalyptus.

Oh, you're a saint! (Canonize this!)
A walking, talking Byzantine twist!
Like Saint Joseph of Cupertino who just floated away,
You ghost group texts for 37 days.
But when you show up, you bring seven forks,
And a harp made of spoons and experimental sporks.

You are a saint, and that’s the truth…
A beacon of grace… with a weird uncooked youth…
If sainthood is strange, you’re a heavenly freak.
You make the Vatican call back once a week.