Well, one good turn deserves another since we got on this poetic binge. This one goes to the tune of “The Man on the Flying Trapeze.” If you don’t know the song, here it is on the classic Victor recording by Walter O’Keefe:
1934 HITS ARCHIVE: The Man On The Flying Trapeze (Parts 1 & 2) - Walter O’Keefe
Once I was Cath’lic, now I’m home alone,
Like a young nun who’s become an old crone,
Left without money to live on my own,
Deceived by a counterfeit “priest.”
Now this wallet that I had, it was chock full.
It kept every cent of my income,
But as hard as I tried, I could never resist
That mountebank, li’l Hop-o’-My-Thumb.
Ohhhhh, he gloats over cash with a studied aplomb,
That mountebank who dwarfs tiny Hop-o’-My-Thumb.
His sermons are maudlin, all content humdrum:
My wallet’s now with this “curé.”
He’d shake down the trads like a bum on the street;
His eyes could assess your whole net worth tout de suite.
Hellfire he rained down on the poor and deadbeat,
And the trads they paid up when he preyed.
He’d eyeball the folks from the cult portico;
From behind he laid eyes on my wallet.
He rubbed his wee palms and chirruped, “Heigh-Ho!
“What’s that on your whatchamacallit?”
Ohhhhh, he gloats over cash with a studied aplomb,
That mountebank who dwarfs tiny Hop-o’-My-Thumb.
His sermons are maudlin, all content humdrum:
My wallet’s now with this “curé.”
Oh, I wailed and I whined so, I repined for years,
While my spindly kids starved, my wife shed hot tears.
Their cries were like dung-flies that buzzed in my ears.
Alas and alack, alack-a-day!
I went to this chiseler, the huckster, and twanged:
“Ya’ll get yer comeuppance, ya snake!”
He shot me the bird with a flick of his wrist,
And laughed as he hissed, “Feed ‘em cake.”
Ohhhhh, he gloats over cash with a studied aplomb,
That mountebank who dwarfs tiny Hop-o’-My-Thumb.
His sermons are maudlin, all content humdrum:
My wallet’s now with this “curé.”
Soon did he detect my poor wallet was bare:
My VISA was maxed—not a nickel to spare.
And since I was tapped out, he wasn’t my heir:
My wallet was fully picked clean.
But though it was empty, I asked for it back.
“It should be in mah rear pocket:
It was mah dear Pa’s, kilt from chain smoker’s hack!”
Scoffed he, “Tough toenails, I can hock it!”
Ohhhhh, he gloats over cash with a studied aplomb,
That mountebank who dwarfs tiny Hop-o’-My-Thumb.
His sermons are maudlin, all content humdrum:
My wallet’s now with this “curé.”
Fed up at wits’ end I went to John Law.
Told him I’d just borne the very last straw.
I wanted the wallet I’d got from Papaw.
I was sent to the back of the line!
I told the sergeant that it vanished from sight,
And it once held a tidy nice sum.
It’s now in the grip of that bogus Levite
Called the mountebank li’l Hop-o-my-Thumb.
Ohhhhh, he gloats over cash with a studied aplomb,
That mountebank who dwarfs tiny Hop-o’-My-Thumb.
His sermons are maudlin, all content humdrum:
My wallet’s now with this “curé.”
The cops didn’t dally; they all got right on it.
They caught him (hoorray!) before he could pawn it.
They slapped on the cuffs as he sobbed, “Dogonnit!
My high-living days are kaputt.”
But I’ll never again see that wallet of mine,
Although it was freed from that scuм:
For it teemed about with COVID-19—
Infected by Hop-o’-My-Thumb!
Ohhhhh, he emotes through the bars with a visage sore glum,
That mountebank who dwarfs tiny Hop-o’-My-Thumb.
His sermons are silent like a broken drum,
And my wallet’s now in quarantine.
Topic: Dolan v. Sanborn - Bp. Sanborn replies (Read 34421 times)