There is a brotherhood, born from out a shrine:
I know their heavy burden, for it's the same as mine.
The Lebanese man once offered to show us a new mass,
And pilgrimage was started, when the Eucharist was past.
To partake of his pizza, to eat just one donair!
Unassuming men knew not what would be found there.
With a single bite, the first footfall will strike the dust,
And to stray is then impossible: in Louis-Gee's we trust.
A challenge, it is, to live your lives outside that noble place,
A task to humble any man, and mark hardship on his face.
We pilgrims all live with eternal hope of occasional reunion
With that shrine, that pastor, and that glorious communion.
But now we hear of a brother, in a land so far away.
There, there is no pilgrimage! So tonight we all will pray
That the donair sauce and meat still be blessed all through!
That the vegetables be mighty, because there are so few.
Raise your pitabread chalice in remembrance of his name.
Brother: Keep eyes on the future, when you will partake again.