There was an election in Rome, <br />and it was a true epitome. <br />But they all carried knives <br />in their piteous lives, <br />as they met in their ancient old dome. <br /> <br />And they fleetingly mentioned the Pope, <br />who had recently talked about hope. <br />Then the fighting began, <br />it was man against man. <br />And their tongues were as slippery as soap. <br /> <br />Of the one hundred hopefuls that came, <br />only fifty were senile and lame, <br />all the others were old <br />and their attitude bold, <br />and they played a ridiculous game. <br /> <br />When at last they came out of their church, <br />past the coffin that stood there, of birch. <br />There was only the one <br />and he sure was a Hun. <br />He was carried away on a perch. <br /> <br />It is said it was democratic <br />and results were indeed automatic. <br />But for decades to come <br />it was whispered by some <br />that the meeting produced so much static, <br /> <br />that the chair, with reluctance agreed, <br />in this time of an obvious need, <br />that to pay your way in <br />was considered no sin, <br />and the church will be richer indeed.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-new-pope/
