Mimic Hootings

A voice cried for pity

            the tearful bird,

  entombed in stone,

            weeping ever in endless sorrow

  always and always

           new shapes of woe,

                          like a savage creature

much wronged. . . .

A lovely day, Holiness, don’t you think? Here’s a nice cool cocktail for you to drink. Have a chocolate tart, or a juicy pear. Shall I fluff your cushion, adjust your chair? I’ve got this soothing oil here; let me anoint –

Stop crawling, boy. Get to the fucking point.

Holiness, Signor Berlusconi sends greeting.

Ach! I hope he doesn’t want a meeting. I cannot stand that tanned and toupee’d twat. Remind me to arrange a concordat With Iran; a fatwa should do the trick – Get some wild-eyed nutjob to waste the prick. His continued life, I cannot endure.

Such thoughts, your Holiness, are most impure.

You expect my mind to be without taint? I’m the goddamn Pope, dumbass, not a saint! Well, what does little Silvio want now? I doubt it’s something the Church should allow.

A petition, your Grace, to effect a change – Some doctrinal details to rearrange. The Prime Minister admits to his vice, But carnal misdeeds are so very nice. He’s not an easy man to satiate; His horde of harlots numbers eighty-eight, Yet even these can’t satisfy his lusts Or meet his burning appetite for busts. But, reflecting on his mortality, He’s been stirred by a strange morality. Terror of hell now makes him palpitate; He’s anxious to avoid a dismal fate. For his ease of conscience to be ensured, His adulterous past must be abjured. Signor wishes to lead a blameless life, Yet cannot rest content with just one wife. Might he be permitted a couple more? Monogamy, he claims, is such a bore. Polygamy’s the answer, so he says, But receives at present papal dispraise; To amend this dogma is his request, So that his many amours might be blessed. Declare each Catholic female his spouse, And all his conquests will be kept in-house.

Does he take me for a total duffer? Of all the bullshit I’ve had to suffer, This is the biggest pile of stinking crap That’s been excreted on my ageing lap. Why should I make this outrageous decree?

Signor offers a most substantial fee.

That puts the matter in a different light. I’m not convinced it’s altogether right, But sometimes intransigence must give way When affluent fools are prepared to pay.

Your Grace is quite astonishingly wise. But you’re looking tired; I’ll massage your thighs.