On the Election of the Pope [poem]
And so we have another pope upon the throne
or papa as he’s sometimes fondly known
though I prefer to call him GODFATHER
but not because he is a father sent by God
but more because the Vatican has long been known
to be in bed with those they call The Mob!
I wonder what would Jesus do if he knew how
his so-called representatives on earth possessed
not only gold and land beyond all dreams
(not to mention deadly papal schemes)
but even had a bank on site
which launders Mafia money wash-soap white.
Anyone who dares expose this holy shit
or will not shut his unpietic mouth
will likely end up in the Tiber’s depths
with bricks attached to his uncircumcisely prick
or even hanging high above the Thames from
Blackfriar’s Bridge, his pockets full of rubble
(true story that, just check it, it’s no trouble).
Last year the Holy See (or is it “C” for something else?)
or shall we say the Vatican
(which rhymes with equally as sinister a phrase as “Yes you can!”)
has entertained five million tourists visiting last year
and made one hundred million euros from that trade.
Yet Christ whipped those who in the temple forecourt money made!
It hurts to see so many kind and well-intentioned folks
deceived by such a plain and obvious scam.
I hope you are offended by these words for then
you may wake up and soon be deprogrammed.
Better still, I hope you’ll drag me through the courts
for I will welcome such a chance to share my thoughts
about the way that spirit things are twisted into
crude religion’s traps —
becoming sinister and evil ways to make all souls
unfree and fettered by the thrall of superstition
subjected to the tortures of the many Inquisitions
the mind’s equivalent of the Missionary Position
life dished out in limited edition
so much smallmind prohibition
your churches a model of the human condition
searching for mummy ideals in Maria
a father in priests who have verbal diarrhoea
the ultimate pedlars and black marketeers
in bed with cruel gangsters and rank racketeers.
And that’s all before we have looked at the ways
you inhabit the black hole of dark alleyways
of choirboys and vulnerable lads in your care.
You pull up your cassock revealing bare buttocks
abducting you fuck-up with falsehood’s slime
cacophony’s discord behind your bell’s chime
my nausea’s replete and my horror complete
in my gagging gargantuan struggle to rhyme.
One of your prophets has put it so well
(it’s you who will plummet and burn deep in hell):
“Woe to you that call evil good, and good evil:
that put darkness for light, and light for darkness:
that put bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter”.
Condemned now you are with your popes old or new
The rule of the many by a foul corrupt few.
Because of the robes and the cross you have worn
while you dished out your evil and murder and scorn:
Far better if you would have never been born.
© Alan Morrison, 2013
The Naked Troubadour 