Popes
(with apologies to Joyce Kilmer)
By Maureen Connelly
I thought that I would never see
A Pope depart the Holy See.
A Pope whose Red-Hat pals will choose
Just who will fill his papal shoes.
A Pope who greets his flock each day
And lifts his ermine arms to pray.
A Pope who may all seasons wear
A miter on his snow-white hair.
Upon his bosom pain has pressed,
Now a pace-maker in his chest.
Popes are made by males--not me.
Thank goodness for the LAITY.
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