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
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.
Crying In The Chapel.
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.
Hard To Believe.
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 do tend to clobber the woodwork more than most,)
Gawdamighty, they hit the bar, they miss the ricochet,
No, we wouldn’t 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.)
Off The Xmas List.
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.
A Flipping Miracle.
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.
The Man In The Mirror.
It’s winter and I’m of melancholy air,
Summer, months away leaves me in despair,
Cold indifference abounds, no-one seems to care,
Yes, I know, no-one said life was fair.
The Good Book leaves me painfully aware
That God doesn’t think I’m worth a prayer,
Every night is a dark sleepless nightmare,
A sunny morning countenance, all too rare.
I stand before the bathroom mirror and stare,
Reflecting back is a madman’s maniacal glare,
See the troubled eyes, the twisted tousled hair-
Don’t we two make an unprepossesing pair?
Yet our problems are mine alone to share,
And that depressing bastard isn’t going anywhere,
My fear is if he stays I’ll go completely spare-
Please change the mirror, I don’t care to see him there.
Up glides that big long black Cadillac,
Ms Franklin reposing silent in the back,
Gently, reverently the Caddy begins to roll,
One last slow ride for the Queen of Soul.
Let’s pray that that voice that soared
Isn’t now the sole preserve of the Lord;
Saint Pete’s impatiently awaiting her arrival,
He’ll be leading the chorus at her revival.
Now it’s only those blessed, high up above
Can join in with her on the freeway of love,
…Alas, we once had tickets but could not go,
Now, I know, we’ve got no earthly show.
Alice Through The Looking Glass.
Alice falls down, goes to Crazytown.
Footloose old salt trailing whale tale.
Cathy’s unhappy home, Heathcliffe’s moody manor.
Fifty Shades Of Grey.
Modern bodice ripper, boy maltreats girl.
Silence Of The Lambs
Hannibal tells Clarice a gristly story.
Dead End Doc, rejuvenates. Shock, Horror!
Big Fellas BIG seller. (Popular Fiction)
The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon.
Lost girl nightmare. Tough to bear.
It’s Not About The Bike (Early Lance Armstrong ‘inspirational’ bio)
Drug pedaling Tour De France loser.
The Three Musketeers
Three musketeers, add D’Artagnan, go fourth.
Getting The Cross In.
It was months and months of Sundays back I began to doubt
The words Father McEvedy would by rote routinely spout,
But this July St George has never seen anyone so devout,
For it feels the world is about to end
When your World Cup hopes depend
On England miraculously winning a penalty shoot-out.
So many years as a lapsed Catholic and an avowed atheist,
The cold comfort of the confessional, all too easy to resist,
Yet I’m rattling the old rosary, praying, hoping for an assist,
Perhaps He might help out Southgates squad-
Argentina don’t need a helping hand from God,
Good Lord, what better reason to prove You exist?