They strive to show how much they love the pope—
This Commie pope, whose errors multiply
Faster than any laboratory fly.
In his escape from reason, they find hope—
And with his babbling they are proud to cope.
Does Nimrod’s tower rise indeed? How high?
Curial pederasts must now deny
This project of the mouthy papal dope.
Confusion is, of course, on all their tongues.
They press ahead, which means they fall behind.
They mean to drag their asses up firm rungs
But find the promised ladder realigned.
The virus fills their souls, not just their lungs.
I’m glad their pontiff doesn’t have a mind.