As your Pope I deeply and profoundly regret
If my slap-happy action caused the lady upset.
But to my flock all I ask is to patiently stand
And let your pontiff extend his blessed hand.
Kindly wait for your trembling hand to be taken,
To grab it in a death-grip will surely leave me shaken.
Remember, we don’t press the flesh in the Vatican,
Your man of God is frail and fractious at eighty-one.
To cling to His Eminence’s hand may be no mortal sin
But my patience and arthritic bones are now wafer thin.
So ma’am, forgive me, I’ll be eternally in your debt,
I’m only human, with no certainty of a sainthood yet.
In The Arms Of Jesus, Texas Style.
In the God-fearing burg of White Settlement
Off to church the good and faithful go,
To bend the knee, to take the blessed sacrament,
To pray for the sinners in this world of woe.
Unfortunately there’s one in this day’s congregation
Whose devil’s work is not yet done,
The good flock are in for one hell of a Revelation
Finding one congregant puts his trust in a gun.
He flung aside his coat, took his gun, a shot rang out,
But this gunman wouldn’t go on a rampage,
The Lord might well protect ’em but there’s always doubt-
Texas pew-warmers pack heat in this day and age.
With half the damn congregation blazing away
The church was filled with cordite smoke,
The gunman was offed, off to his Judgement Day;
Sweet Lord above, what a dark cosmic joke.
Forget the good Lords lesson
But not your Smith and Wesson?
What can you say except
Christ Almighty, Jesus wept.
Grain Of Truth.
This shard of wood handed down by the pope
Is a holy relic, a God given gift of faith and hope,
A bit of the manger that had been sweet baby Jesus’ bed,
Or so the pontiff, crossing his fingers (and vice-versa) said.
Bits of True Cross have been sold for untold years,
An ongoing blessing for Vatican City Holy Souvenirs,
So this new True Crib many disbelievers may mock
But the line to see this chip goes off around the block.
With the patience of a saint in this long line I’ve stood,
As I’m a mere manual laborer, a humble hewer of wood
I can’t tell if this babe-in-the-wood story’s kosher or not
But I believe, within this hunk of wood lies a lot of rot.
So, high and mighty Israel Folau,
You’ve flaming gone and done it now,
Our devout Christian-cum-climate denier
Claims sinfulness leads to forest- and Hellfire.
My flagging faith won’t be restored
By this empty-headed vessel of the Lord,
I pray St Peter has this sermon on record
When Israel goes to his final reward.
But I’ve heard that God does love a trier,
So might this unrepentant soul enquire,
Oh wise and enlightened Israel Folau
Who made you mightier than thou?
The mildest of gosh darned blasphemies
Once drove Right(eous) evangelists to their knees,
Now that they have accepted Trump as their Savior
They’ll have to accept his unpardonable behavior.
After Stormy they really needed Gods advice,
Should not an amorous adulterer pay a stiff price?
The true believers of Trump use that inspired line-
‘To err is human, but to forgive Don, divine.’
But have even the devoutest disciples begun
To question the veracity of their ill-Chosen one?
Good Lord, what would sweet Jesus do if he heard
Don tweet and repeat that Motherf***er of a word?
The President is known to speak forthrightly
But a drunken sailor could speak more politely,
Are a few ex-believers now feeling voters remorse
Hearing Dons rude attempts at social intercourse?
I’m of a Conservative mind,
In Gods words comfort I find,
But if I use my God given-brain
I can’t forgive Don the Profane.
Hallelujah, the scales have fallen from my eyes-
His words and (Miss) deeds serve only to demonise-
That Motherf***er word rings loud and clear,
I’m the victim of believing in a false profiteer.
Now Don’s tweets are down to another level,
He sounds less demi-god than foul mouthed devil,
It’s dispiriting to find Dons not a blessing, but perverse,
And hearing that Motherf***er is a God-awful curse.
The Arms Of Jesus.
You don’t want to mess with the Lone Star state,
They don’t believe in listening to illiberal debate,
They have faith in a President and God being great,
They stick to their guns, say their piece- and shoot straight
There, their view on life is conservative,
There a God-fearing life you better live,
Where if, for public office you hope to stand
You have to have an NRA permit in your hot hand.
Now, they have an Attorney General, name o’ Ken,
Once a highfalutin lawyer a
pric– prince amongst men,
He swears by commandments delivered way back when
Though in Texas ‘Thou shalt not kill’ scrapes in at number ten.
Now good ol’ Ken wants to bring guns into church-
Be like good ol’ times, back at the good ol’ John Birch-
There’s nothing like feeling ones faith being bolstered
Than a pistol pressed to your heart, shoulder holstered.
Soon at church you can sing to Him, do the Mass,
Hope like hell the hymn don’t strain the stained glass,
There, while others pray you must just let the sermon pass,
On alert for an armed invader intruding, ready to cap his ass.
But Kens legislation isn’t the blessing that it seems,
Taking arms into Gods house is taking it to extremes,
Has Ken miss-heard His word, or skipped the Lesson?
Or is he knee deep in the service of Smith and Wesson?
Scintilla Of Truth.
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.
Shake It Off.
I’m not saying I’m a religious man,
I’m more a godless Crystal Palace fan,
But trying to follow Hodgson’s odd squad
Leaves me believing there’s a devil, swear to God.
Off we went to Vicarage Road,
On the train up we drank- a load,
Arriving in a giddy state of inebriation,
But our loss meant ’twas premature celebration.
We’d gone into the Hornets nest and been sorely stung,
Now I stand, swaying, with heavy heart and head hung,
Thinking of how, again, our dreams of an FA Cup final
Swirl away, down the drain of a poxy Watford urina
Too Right, Cobber.
Thank you for your deep thoughts, Fraser Anning,
No thanks, for the Right wing flames you’re fanning,
He condemns all violence, yet his dry eye darkly gleams,
For him it’s only the Right who can be left to go to extremes.
He’s saddened by Mosque shootings but
It’s not time to keep his diplomatic gob shut,
He’ll illuminate us of what we’ve been blind to;
Words Fraser has long had half a mind to.
First his ‘final solution’ speech brought screeches of indignation
From even Pauline Hanson and her all-inclusive One Nation,
But stating the victims of a Mosque shooting are to blame
Guarantees Fraser strolls straight into the Hall of Shame.
George Pell is due to serve six long years,
George has had quite the fall from grace,
He prays his appeal will reach Gods ears
And deliver him from this cold dark place.
But some do still believe the old Vatican envoy,
John Howard believes whatever George says,
Tony Abbott believes he’s innocent as a choirboy;
George believes… that’s an unfortunate phrase.