Before the Western Church endured castration—
Invited it, in truth, and with a smile—
Then could a man be happy in his station
Even while foes planned martyrdom by guile.
Then could conquistadors advance in style
Against the seat of bloody sacrifice.
The Rule of Christ as Judge brooked no denial—
And it was good, though only rarely nice.
Now the pope turns to fairies for advice
And preaches as his models hags perverse
Beyond belief. Our spiritual lice
Multiply, drinking deep of Adam’s curse.
We hold on, difficult to reassure—
But does a remnant actually endure?