Got raiment, mold vestments, on myself;
I nix on litigation—buy with pelf;
Looked the other way in Dei’s of old.
I’ve now a gold-lined frock and stole.

Don’t try to try me—I’m the Vic’, so
Can’t touch me here—outlandish guards at the door. . .
State in a state, and I’m the governor;
I’m in a goldmine rock* in Rome.

“Thrilled, I fill gold-lined frock and stole.
The Seven Deadlies savage the soul;
Priapic prelates, yet, covet cornhole
And they get their rocks to roll.

But where else can a cloistered man go?
It’s just like living on a boysterous [sic] atoll:
Sometimes you gotta go and dip in the shoal;
While you swim, you might want to troll.

I never tell it; it’s the truth that I’ve killed—
I give short shrift to little boys my boys drilled;
I ain’t worried. . .chose me Pope post-Pole**
To wear that gold-lined frock and stole.

Thrilled, I’m in gold-lined frock and stole;
One time Inquisitor was my role.
On my side, Law, fat mass who lithely stole
From Mass; Rome time was his goal.

Now he’s in goldmine rock with dome;
Things got too hot for him back in his home;
His sins could fill a very hefty tome.
No getting caught. . .from the crime scene you roam. . .
Safe in goldmine rock in Rome.



*St. Peter’s
**JP II, born in Poland