Dressed up, sealed in, the world excluded,
Princes of the Church, secluded;
I suppose they sit in chapel
arguing who's fit to grapple
with corruption, who can handle
uppity women, priestly scandal;
but God knows how they'll really pick
a Pope to follow Benedict.
Spin the chalice, pass the dalmatic
musical statues, hunt the relic,
pin the tail on the priceless fresco,
all-in combat roller-disco?
Or maybe they'll decide it's better
to go for the chap with the biggest biretta.
Eventually, they'll pick some bloke
and never let on what they smoke.
© Gwen Seabourne
Hebog Tramor is a Professor at a UK University, researching medieval legal history and writing the odd poem.
