Friday, June 16, 2017
John Strong Sycamore the apologist
has a neat little beard, ten published books;
writes watertight blogs; the Pope's death is his wish.
He lights his pipe and says, between puffs,
"That sounds like socialism!" and other rebuffs.
The Old Men's Club, the American Deacon's Club,
the esoteric homespun Traddy Know-it-all Club,
the Butterfly Priests Club, the Latin Fantard Club,
the Thick Steak and Cigar after Latin Mass Club,
the Medievalist's Anglo-Saxon Strawberry Tea Club,
the We Can't Barely get any Readers Worth a Damn Club
so name it something convenient like the Remnant,
We Few, We Grumpy Few, or some such name Club.
I'll take my subscription elsewhere, I think.
Perhaps some Eurotrash mag where they still write poems
in a vulgar free form. At least they haven't lost their hearts.
Beaver the Cleaver had bad dreams
about the man in white on the Baroque facade.
"He came in with a super-soaker filled with holy water
to bomb Dearly Missed Benedict's traditional asperges
when Emeritus took the hydro gun from Bergoglio
and smashed it on the pew (which is a Protestant tainting), saying,
"Nein! Nicht!" and Bergoglio stalked out in a huff with a scowl.
I woke gasping for air and weeping soaked my pillow."
He's an uncanny type of the anti-prophet to come, perchance.
Beaver's orthodox tears spare us another year. Thanks!