There’s a tale to tell behind your Easter holiday,
So linger a moment, pull up a pew and listen, pray,
They say Jesus died for our sins, hung up on a cross-
But on the instructions of his Godfather boss?
Apparently, once a sinfully high price was paid
Into a stone cold cave the good Son was laid,
He was dead to rights, a good Roman doctor swore,
But wait- there’s more of this fantastical tale in store.
The script sure doesn’t tail off to the dead end one expects;
There’s life in the old crypt, according to the ancient texts;
Come Sunday, Christ’s up and kicking, would you believe?
Simply a bloody miracle, according to the blessedly naive.
So, thank God (and His offspring) for making the sacrifice
But can this damned fellow follow Your books good advice?
Well, again this Easter, back on a hard bench I’ll be found,
Down at the Crown, sinning, getting in another round.
Sorrowfully sitting in his cell
Is new inmate ex-Cardinal Pell,
Publicly his innocence he still professes,
Though to his God he quietly confesses,
‘Lord, it was only the occasional lap lapse;
Lord, hoping for celibacy is all well and good
But there’s little or nun of that in the priesthood.’
But from above, if He heard
There’s not been one little word,
He would have thought one-
The Father or His blessed son-
Or that ethereal wraith-
Would speak to a man of faith,
But yet, not one uplifting sound;
How loud Gods silence doth resound.
Now that Mr Pell has been solitarily confined
He has time to, unmolested, scour his mind,
One day is an eternity in this Hellish place,
Though being banged up in solitary is his saving grace,
George has gone from shooting the papal bull
To hearing a cardinals word is not indisputable,
And what he saw as an innocent Church affair
Is turning into his worst unfrocking nightmare.
The hard harsh word came from on high, from the Pope,
Gods good servant McCarrick had lost his last hope,
The Pope didn’t hear his prayers or poor innocent pleas;
That pained him more than his poor old worn out knees.
Heaven knows, at 88 Theodore can ill-afford
To get unforgivably offside with his good Lord.
All those abuses of power, the secrets Ted held within
Now lay uncovered, obvious as Hell and ugly as sin,
The long serving Cardinal faces a humiliating defrocking,
No blessings for Ted in next year’s Vatican Christmas stocking.
At least when he’s loudly complaining in Purgatory
Many many priests will sympathise with his story.
Sarah Sanders says it was surely Gods will
That President was the role Don was predestined to fulfill,
The Lord chose him as His earthly vessel, so she says;
If her word is true, the Lord sure do work in mysterious ways.
So, in what version of the Good Book is it said
That Don can casually fornicate outside the marriage bed,
Then spare no expense to silence another cheap tart?
Bless ‘im, he’s serving himself and the Good Lords counterpart.
Don has been working assiduously away for five weeks
To get the funding for that wall he so desperately seeks,
But for his furloughed workers who can’t make a living
Don’s shutdown is an unwelcome gift that keeps on giving.
For five weeks Donald and them damn Dems played hard ball,
Five weeks on and he’s not got f**k all for his precious wall,
Five weeks of Dons sh… shutdown, resulting in sod-all gain,
Now Don is feeling his Government workers angst and pain.
What an inspiring result at Man City the Palace fans saw,
But we’re back to reality after Cardiff’s Nil-all draw,
Some say the Welsh were plucky,
Some say Palace were unlucky,
Cardiff came with a rear-guard ponderous, leaky and porous,
Hell, those Bluebirds would- should- be easy pickings for us.
But the Palace sharp-shooters hit both the bar and the post,
They tend to clobber the woodwork more often than most,
Gawd, they hit the bar, they miss the ricochet,
We wouldn’t really be celebrating Christs birthday;
Surely after the Man City Miracle, Lord it would please us
If someone nailed in a couple of crosses. (Apologies to Jesus.)