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There was an election in Rome,
and it was a true epitome.
But they all carried knives
in their piteous lives,
as they met in their ancient old dome.
And they fleetingly mentioned the Pope,
who had recently talked about hope.
Then the fighting began,
it was man against man.
And their tongues were as slippery as soap.
Of the one hundred hopefuls that came,
only fifty were senile and lame,
all the others were old
and their attitude bold,
and they played a ridiculous game.
When at last they came out of their church,
past the coffin that stood there, of birch.
There was only the one
and he sure was a Hun.
He was carried away on a perch.
It is said it was democratic
and results were indeed automatic.
But for decades to come
it was whispered by some
that the meeting produced so much static,
that the chair, with reluctance agreed,
in this time of an obvious need,
that to pay your way in
was considered no sin,
and the church will be richer indeed.
Herbert Nehrlich
Read poems about / on: hope
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