Spry Pope

He hobbles around, with his chin near the ground,
Which makes it easy for him to kneel down.

Just what keeps that little old man
Going there in the Vatican?
Nobody thinks that man can
Walk around, much less stand.

He's not a spry pope. Don't-stand-high, nope,
He can spy small fry right in the eye, sloped.

So all the time, he's hobblin' low—
Bookies bettin', though,
That he's near his last stand.
He must have a real strong adrenal gland.

They should get him into a tram,
Then on a plane to Amsterdam,
Put a pipe in his hand, crammed
With medicinal gram.

Then he could try dope—four or five tokes.
He'd eye apple pie—munchies—sky-high pope.

He'd smile and say, "Just call me dad,"
To the altar lads,
Eating a leg of lamb.
Then he'd start to chow down on a whole ham.

He slow-waltzes across the room,
Plays a jukebox tune,
Dances, says, "Call me pop!"
Oops, there goes that potted pontiff: kerplop!