Ode to the Pope

Five Sundays broke the torment.
No gain, no gain.
Beyond judgment were the wicked.
None gained, none gained.

Sin wrote by the sinners,
Pain written by those who had not known pain,
A judging blow weakened by the mere thought of decay.

Softly now...don't let the little boy weep.
Alone and bloodied by your feet.

Sick saccharin smile lit my eye,
The Devils hand naught what the design.

The one they fear be the one they mimic.
Holy Art Thou, in heaven, not the limit.

Do onto others as you would onto yourself,
So rape their sons and procure their wealth