Denys


	Coglioni del Pescatore Pope Fairly Innocent the twenty-first Was famous for his never failing thirst. Liebfraumilch, a German wine, he’d choose Considering it the most appropriate booze. But should he wish to get completely pissed, he Ordered cases of Lacrima Christi. Pope Fairly Innocent the twenty-second Was, for a pope, unusually fecund, It’s rumoured that his staff of serving nuns Produced eight daughters and eleven sons. He never put in peril his immortal soul By resorting to the sin of birth control. Pope Fairly Innocent the twenty-third Pronounced an edict patently absurd. He claimed St. Timothy had clearly said The far side of the moon was coloured red. The cardinals protested: “That’s untrue. Everybody knows it’s Danish Blue.

		Popery (Lines on the death of Pope John Paul II.) Now the old rogue’s in his grave, The Cardinals, in their conclave, Will choose a new and different Pope; At least, that is our fervent hope; One whose judgment will be better On things like banning the French letter; Permit the joy of copulation And stop this over population. And, speaking of the marriage bed Permit all catholic priests to wed. Compel the bishops to attack The cleric paedophiliac. Instead of trotting out excuses And switching them to other duties. Meanwhile they play this stale old joke Of watching for the Sistine smoke.

Freedom

His prison cell was large and well appointed,

With easy chair and comfy feather bed

A TV set with videos supplied

A shelf of worthy books he never read.

The picture window, there, beyond the bars,

Was wide and through the tinted glass

He saw the panorama of a world outside.

Three times a day a warder, after prayers,

Served food, quite wholesome, if a little dull,

A door beside the window led outside.

Steel, forbidding, and with iron bolts

And at the top a notice caught the eye

Which read: “Don’t even think of it!”

But then, our prisoner, one sunny day,

Noticed that those fearsome iron bolts

Were fitted on the inside of the door.

So, sliding them, he gave a little push.

Without a sound the door swung open wide.

Outside, he blinked and gave a gasp of joy.

The sky so blue; the grass so green and fresh.

The world enchanting in the sweet clear air.

He wandered on and found a sparkling stream

A stream he never even knew existed.

As he stood there wondering at it all

He heard a step and there beside him stood

His former warder, looking sad and hurt.

“I am so glad that now at last I’ve found you!

Poor chap, you must be terrified out here.”

“I’ll help you to return once more to safety.

That road down there to which it seems you’re heading

Would only lead to sadness and confusion.

So let us kneel together for a moment,

Then in thankfulness we’ll both return!”

“Thanks, but no thanks” the prisoner replied.

“That road’s free thought! Return then to your gaol,

But let me find a world that’s truly free –

It’s possible of course that I might fail,

But it’s a world you’ve never tried to see!”

THE CENTURION’S STORY

Massada A.D.73

Gaius Lepidus stood at the foot of the rock.

Before him were the tumbled, twisted bodies;

Israelites, lying where they’d fallen

From that last desperate leap, or driven

O’er the edge by thrusting Roman swords.

Lying near his foot, a skinny grey-haired corpse;

Older than most with weathered, wasted limbs.

He turned it over with his foot and looked,

Then called across to one of his companions:

“Julius, look at this man’s wrists and feet -

“This one has once been crucified, I’m sure.

And now I look, I think I know the man.

His name was Jesus, a wand’ring Nazarene

who preached and maddened the Sanhedrin.

by threatening their pomp and dignity.

Forty years ago it was, the year the moon

obscured the sun in Passover.

They brought the man to trial, whipped up the mob;

Asked the Governor, Pilatus, for his death.

And Pontius reluctantly agreed.

My job it was to oversee his death.

Pilatus sent for me, “Go easy on him, Gaius;

He’s done no wrong that you or I can see;

– The thing’s political - that slimy Caiaphas!”

I chose my squad and set out for the place.

A man I knew was standing at the scene.

A well dressed Arimathean with a band

Of half a dozen servants dressed in white.

We had a chat and came to an agreement;

A tomb nearby was his and could be used.

I said the men were not to smash his legs.

But one young idiot took a spear

And jabbed him in the side, the thrust

Puncturing his bladder. I had the

Fellow flogged for disobeying orders.

By nightfall, it seemed the man was dead.

They took him down and laid him in the vault.

The guards had settled down to watch

With three wine skins presented by my friend.

I left, returning to the palace.

In later years I learned the truth from Joseph;

By midnight all the guards were snoring drunk.

He looked inside the tomb and saw some signs of life.

So took him home to hide him in his house.

He rolled the stone back, left two servants there.

For days the preacher hovered near to death.

Hidden in the rich man’s summer house.

His wounds began to heal with Joseph’s care.

Meanwhile the wildest stories flew,

Some claimed he’d risen from the dead.

The priests demanded that the governor

Should institute a search throughout Judea.

Pilatus, though, conceded no such thing.

“Waste the Legion’s time to look for him?

If he’s survived, then justice has been served,”

Joseph summoned Jesus, sat him down.

“Good fortune, bribes, your constitution,

have this time saved you; but it cannot happen twice.

Go to ground, change your looks, your name,

Cut short your hair; pretend that you are Greek.

“Your disciples, convinced that you were God

Believe you risen from the bed of death.

Let’s leave it so; leave them to preach your word.

I’ve work that you can do to earn your bread

Your brains more help to me than any sword.”

That’s what Joseph told me. Many years ago.

Posted then to Egypt, I lost touch

I later heard he’d died in Antioch.

And Jesus? I wonder why on earth the fool

Joined this futile plot to throw off Roman rule.

Educating Prout

A cautionary tale

This is a tale that’s all about

A one-time vicar of Lezayre

His name was Nicodemus Prout,

A man of piety and prayer.

Each week in church his congregation

Were warned of coming tribulation.

Underneath his fearsome gaze,

They were urged to mend their ways.

He told his flock about confession;

About the purging of transgression.

His sermon took up half the morning

No wonder everyone was yawning.

Then one day some awkward sod

Enquired if he believed in God.

This question took poor Prout aback

Completely stopped him in his track.

He looked at first distinctly flustered,

But then: “Of course!” he blustered,

“Your question is extremely odd.

Everyone believes in God!”

“I don’t!” replied this curious bod,

“I don’t believe there is a God!”

“Who made the earth?” the Vicar cried;

“Who made God?” the bod replied.

This question brought our Nick up short

And matins to an end was brought.

Poor old Prout was deep in thought

With all his theories brought to nought.

It was clear that Mr. Prout

Was afflicted with a Doubt.

His wife, distracted by his sighs,

Was inclined to sympathise.

Next Sunday morning all his flock

Were in for an almighty shock.

He said, with signs of great distress:

“I have misled you, I confess.

“What I’ve been preaching’s utter rot!”

But someone called out: “No it’s not!”

The speaker was that stupid clod

Who’d questioned his belief in God.

“Cut out the myth and superstition;

You are not headed for perdition!

‘Love thy neighbour’ is enough,

All the rest is so much guff!”

So old Nicodemus Prout

Decided to be less devout.

By loving others he at least

Became a far, far better priest.

Holy Trinity

In the grey and crumbling stones of

The College of Holy Trinity

There lives the Reverend Justin Darke,

Professor of Divinity.

Professor Darke has spent much time

Pursuing his research

Into the lives of certain saints

Who graced the early church.

Among them, one Eusebius

Concerned the Reverend Justin,

Especially the influence

He’d had on Saint Augustine.

The two of them in Carthage

Found studying rather boring;

His friend taught young Augustine

About dice and booze and whoring.

Justin Darke described it all

In a solemn monograph

He wondered why his scholarship

Made everybody laugh.

So poor old Justin sits and works,

Searching for the truth,

Hoping to find an early saint

Who had a sober youth.

Alas, to turn up such a one

Is harder than you think.

No wonder such a fruitless search

Drove Justin Darke to drink!

He sits there at his dusty desk,

A modern Aristotle,

Pouring over ancient books,

And swigging from a bottle.

Retrospection

Now I’ve reached my fourscore years and ten

I’m somewhat puzzled by my fellow men.

For scientists, with careful observation,

Strict logic and hard computation,

In every field have opened up the truth,

Revealing what were mysteries in my youth

Yet men of faith have always stopped their ears

And clung to ancient myths of former years.

As men explore the depths of time and space

And show the evolution of the human race,

The pious dig a new defensive line

And call the thing ‘intelligent design’.

They preach it with despairing vehemence

Long on words but short on evidence.

Armed with this diaphanous fig leaf,

They cling to their original belief

And kneel in hopeful but uncertain prayer

Begging forgiveness from what isn’t there.

Clever men, in other ways so wise,

Should simply let those scales fall from their eyes.


The Unfortunate Tale of John Brew John Brew, the vicar of St. German Was noted for his Advent sermon. Each year the members of his flock Were in for an almighty shock Subjected to a warning dire About the tortures of hellfire. One year, riding to the church, His front wheel gave a nasty lurch And poor John landed in a puddle; His papers scattered in a muddle. He had to hurry like the Dickens To get there just in time for matins. “In the name of the Father and the Son. . . “ His lengthy sermon had begun. He trotted out his usual text But then - forgot what should come next! Nervously his notes he fumbled While incoherently he mumbled. His flock meanwhile were getting bored Some nodded off – some even snored. Then a someone, waking with a start, Cried: “ Turn it up, you sad old fart!” Two or three others then spoke up And soon the other folk woke up. Alas, his whole flock, in a body, Marched out and up to Cronk-y-Voddy. The pastor in the Chapel there Was always careful to prepare The message that he would impart By carefully learning it by heart. Poor Brew, left there in the lurch Surveyed the now quite empty church. And thought, in his humiliation “Sod this lark for a vocation!” And, taking out a box of matches, He burnt the whole damn place to ashes.

		The Saving of Sister Mercy Sister Mercy of St. Joseph’s School Insisted on her pupils’ discipline. And any child who tried to play the fool Would quickly get a whack upon the shin. A child called Elspeth smuggled in an apple; A transgression Sister Mercy could not bear. She made poor Elspeth stay an hour in chapel And spend the time in penitence and prayer. Another, Mary, smuggled in a pear, Concealing it beneath her woollen dress. Sister paralysed the child with fear Recounting all the sins she must confess. But in the tiny room where Mercy slept Her fierce demeanour disappeared. She flung herself across her bed and wept, Yielding to the furies that she feared. The cause of Sister Mercy’s bitter grief Was the awkward matter of her disbelief She, though it destroyed her own self-worth, Could simply not accept the Virgin Birth. She lay prostrate upon the chapel floor For hours to expiate this dreadful schism. But all it did was make her doubt the more And furthermore it gave her rheumatism. Reverend Mother saw something was wrong Sent for Mercy after evensong. Sat her down, then looked at her and smiled. “Tell me, Sister, what’s the matter, child.” Mercy thought it best not to deceive: “Reverend Mother, I cannot any more believe.” “So, you’ve lost your faith, aye, there’s the rub! All I can say is: come and join the club. “I lost my faith, oh, many moons ago. It didn’t mean my resignation, though. I thought most carefully and in the end, Chose to carry on my duty – and pretend. It’s what you do, not what you say that matters Even if your dogma lies in tatters. Just carry on as normal your devotions Even though you’re going through the motions. Disbelief cannot be called a sin; Best let it out, not cradle it within. To kid yourself there’s really no excuse; Dishonesty is mental self-abuse. You’ve built, thus far, a savage reputation; Now’s the time for rehabilitation. Be kind and gentle if you wish to reach The hearts and minds of those you seek to teach. Mercy, hearing Reverend Mother’s attitude Burst into tears, quite overwhelmed with gratitude. She’d not expected her to be so kind And went away with newfound peace of mind. Mercy’s pupils thought it rather strange Their teacher showed so radical a change. The reason they could not of course suspect, But soon she won their love and their respect. In later years, thanks to an aunt’s bequest Mercy could retire to well-earned rest. St. Joseph’s staff were sad to see her leave But no-one knew she still did not believe.

	Pentalogue I have a friend, an educated flea Who chose, as residence, my collie dog. Although he had a history degree He wrote a thesis on the Decalogue. The Ten Commandments. in his view, were dead. Too irrelevant these days still to survive He sought to frame some new precepts instead Deciding that their number should be five. “I know”. He said, “I’d better have a think before I reach for paper, pen and ink; It’s possible that it will take a year. So I’ll retire inside your collie’s fur.”