Bishops deserve much better
Said his eminence
Over a cup of galoshes tea.
Christ cannot expect us all
To do His work as wraiths.
He laughed gold-leaf.

His sandals were made of sweat, you see;
His eyes were made of corn.
His hands were taut-laced filigree;
His nose was a crusted horn.
He lived in a slattern’s cavern bed;
He died in a flaming truck.
They found his body deprived of its head
Fathoms-deep in Ouseburn muck.

Thorns, said the bishop,
Are all very well,
But one must -- he short-chuckled --
Have the rose as well.

March 1, 1970

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