I think it's time to make more saints
The pope said in his quarters
There aren't enough in our great church
For all Our sons and daughters
Especially since we were obliged
To check our Holy List
And knock those off our sacred roll
We found did not exist.
That bloke from Opus Dei is ripe
For papal elevation -
You know, old what's his name, Jose:
He'll be my new creation!
So what if he gave comfort to
(And sympathised with) Franco?
He wrote good books in our defence
And hardly touched the blanco
(That's Spanish, folks, for wine that's white -
Recall - I'm multilingual!
By Jove, I am a clever Pope,
So bright it makes me tingle!)
And that old girl, the wrinkly nun,
She's popular and quaint.
She's even done a miracle -
She'll make a perfect saint.
OK, so she was chums with that
Old Chilean dictator -
Hey, no-one's perfect, pal!
You know, it's no cause to berate her.
I know she's not quite there just yet
But in a year or two
We'll prove another miracle
And then we'll put her through.
Hey Cardinal - yes you, guy in
The funny looking hat -
How many saints have I now made
Since I came in to bat?
Four hundred is it? Even more?
Cor, strike me with a feather!
How can the church be dead and gone?
We'll carry on forever!
And when I'm dead and in my vault
Beneath the marble floor
The bloke that comes in after me
Through great St Peter's door
Will make me too into a saint
Reciting rhymes in Latin
Dressed up in funny looking clothes
Of frilly lace and satin!
And I shall sit with my pal God
Up high above the clouds
Or ride in my new Pope-mobile
And bless the awstruck crowds.
But best of all I shall look down
(and shall enjoy it well)
At those damned souls tormented in
The ghastly bowels of hell -
For did Aquinas not reveal
That part of heaven's joys
Involve our cheerful gazing at
The souls our God destroys?
By Norman Pridmore