You are old, Father Francis

For those who can't be bothered to wade through what is described - by Dr Austin Powers - as the most important interview since Scalfarius interviewed Jesus, we present a poetical version of that interview (with the preliminary remarks such as "Pleased to meet you, International Man of Mystery!" omitted).

Austen Ivereigh, international Man of Mystery.

"You are old, Father Francis," the small man said,
    "You never scold people, or grumble;
Now you live in a cupboard and feed on stale bread —
    What made you so awfully humble?"

"In my youth," Father Francis replied to the gnome,
    "Dictating was my wish and hope;
I've lived all my life as the saints did in Rome
    To get myself chosen as Pope."

"You are old," said the gnome, "and the faithful cry out,
    That you're known for your orthodox preaching;
Crystal-clear and profound, ruling out any doubt —
    What made you so expert at teaching?"

"In my youth," said the pope, grinning with nonchalance,
    "The Jesuits took me in hand;
I learned that no question has just one response —
    All answers are equally grand!"

"You are old," said the gnome, "and through synods you sit
    Praising dear Pachamama, our queen;
And yet fascists cry out it's against holy writ —
    How dare they all say it's obscene?"

"In my youth," said Pope Francis, "I trained as a priest,
    And learned that all faiths were the same,
Praising pagan religions, from greatest to least;
    So now why should I get the blame?"

"You are old," said the gnome, "and were hardly renowned
    For knowing the facts about China;
Yet you've made all their Catholics flee underground —
    Could any solution be finer?"

"I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
    Said the pontiff; "don't give me such crap!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
    Be off, or I'll give you a slap!"

(With humble apologies to Lewis Carroll.)

The poetry of Rowan Williams

Many readers will know that Rowan Williams, the outgoing Archbishop of Canterbury, is also a talented poet. While helping to tidy up after the recent Anglican General Synod (washing the blood off the floor, etc.) we came across a document in his handwriting, which suggests that he was practising this skill during the Synod.

You are old, Father Williams.

"You are old, Father Williams," the young man said,
"And your church has become very wild.
They don't seem to notice that you're at the head -
And Giles Fraser just screams like a child."

"In my youth," the Archbishop said, watching them fight,
"I thought all my flock could agree;
But now I've a subject on which they'll unite - 
They're all feeling angry with me."

Que sera sera,
Whatever Welby, Welby...

No, that's been done...

My bishop's got a red, red, nose.

My bishop's got a red, red, nose,
From drinking too much port.
His wife could do the job as well - 
Now, there's a brilliant thought!

If...

If you can bind the Church of England tighter,
And get it to calm down, if not agree,
About just who's allowed to wear a mitre
And run a diocese - that is, a see...
If you can reconcile the Lib and Evo
With Anglo-Cath and rabid Atheist,
Then, when at last you're given the old heave-ho, 
And go to Cambridge, maybe you'll be missed.

There is nothing like a dame...

We got Durham, Ely, London,
We got Birmingham and York,
We got Winchester and Bradford,
(Now that's one who loves to talk!)
We got Liverpool and Norwich,
And a lot more calling names!
What ain't we got?
We ain't got dames!