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A Pindaric Ode Affectionately Addressed To Archbishop ******* ******* By His Grateful Friend And Admirer, The Prince Of This World.


Water is best, my bishop, fire is fine
You have the Water. The inferno’s mine.
The one drives out the other, or makes fog
Confusing mind and making vision clog.
Fog on the moor and greedy wolves. In fright
You call them in and hope they’ll be polite.

Now off to bed. The wolf will mind your sheep,
And if their terror should disturb your sleep
Dammit! They’re always bleating. Dream, safe in your room,
Of medals from the Queen, like Basil Hume.
Don’t fret over children’s innocence defiled.
Trust in saint Freud, compassionate and mild.

You have a Mandate from the Enemy
For instructing souls. What of it? Better goals
Attract. Sloth, peaceful life, the Middle Way.
Extremist Catholics have had they day.
Saints, monks and nutters, nuns, with zeal distraught,
All fall before the inclusive juggernaut.

Experts you needed, so you called Greg Pope.
Wise choice! His salary? Too much, I hope.
While Catholics rage and gayeratti snigger
You’ll cut a dash as a consensual figure.
In Britain faiths all have a part to play,
But only if their God will stay away.

What's that I hear you say? "Let’s pull together?"
That goes for you and me, but have you thought whether
It’ll wash with your backward Catholics who believe,
And love and risk and fear, rejoice and grieve
Read Penny Catechisms, want to “die well”,
Swallow that stuff about millstones, judgement, hell?

Ravenous we hunger, so drive your sheep
To our fold, while the snivelling bigots weep.
In slavering certainty, we wait for you,
Plumper and tastier than mutton stew.
You’ll ease our pangs. My kitchen staff excel!
A bishop is the sweetest dish in hell.