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.
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.)
Would this long jolly December day never end?
All this kid craved was for the blessed night to fall,
I watched in impatience for the sun to descend-
How I’d like to get my hands on that clock on the wall.
Finally in the wee wee hours of Christmas eve
I hopefully strung up my XXL size Christmas stocking,
Murmuring ‘Santa please don’t practice to deceive,’
After last year my once-solid faith in Him was rocking.
I lay abed replaying my plan of when Santa would descend;
No more milk and cookies left for when He deigned to call,
Now its eggnog, Christmas spirit, Bells 80 proof, special blend,
This kid is not above greasing the skids to get a decent haul.
Come Christmas morning and what did I receive?
From the mantle fluttered my stocking, empty, mocking,
It hurts to find your faith is based on make believe-
No more lists to Santa, that fat bastard I’m Facebook blocking.
Good God, I find it hard to believe those who do believe
That Donald Trump is part of Gods mysterious Master plan,
Those of blind faith who found a black president impossible to conceive
Yet can find little fault in this one, Gods Right White quite imperfect man.
Any conservative will admit he’s a philanderer,
But Sweet Jesus, Donald’s making a great nation,
And doth the Good Book not say, ‘to be human is to err?’
Let’s give Don the benefit of doubt (and a liberal translation.)
How the bloody righteous paw through chapter and verse,
Praying pardon for their (play)boys less than model behaviour,
Finding any blessed reason to praise a man Beelzebub would curse;
How Divine, stumbling on such a forgiving anti-Gay-Muslim-Refugee Saviour.