They'd read a dead boar's entrails, would these pagan quacks.
They'd commune with Zeus, Thor, and gods who came in packs.
You'd see these girls and guys dressed in emperor's clothes;
Today that might turns heads; back then, anything goes.

They didn't dine on carp at Christmas, pagan packs--
Not Poles, they loved maypoles that from forests were hacked.
And when you are trimming your chopped Christmas tree today. . .
Custom born when pagans around one did dance and bray.

They'd look inside an elk, and its heart they'd hijack
Along with dead-boar entrails, then they'd try to crack
Mysteries contained in matter on which vultures might snack,
But the priests were makin' up endogmagenous* facts.

No morgues had these people when terms of life were due;
They could not force-freeze heads as Ted and Walt would do.

Stonehenge dolmens measured sunrise and setting sun.
Druidic debauchery, I surmise, was fun.

If you're at death's door, do not see a pagan quack. . .
Might give you herbs and mugwort for a heart attack,
Then by this churl you'd die; he'd summarily dose
You with toxic nostrums while you'd slowly thrombose.

Uh-uh, uh-uh. . . .

So don't get any tainted, tainted snacks: cassia, creosote,
Corydalis, senna, hops, ma-huang, symphytum,
Don't get into those tainted, tainted, tainted, tainted snacks,
No.


*combination of "dogma," and "endogenous," growing or originating from within.