Mrs. The Pope

I'll elope with the Pope
on a Sunday in Spain,
and I hope that the dope
won't pick a day when it rains.
For though the walrus and crow
might find it refreshing,
the sugar-drop people would melt
right through the chairs' meshing.
And the rest of the guests
won't think it so smashing,
the vows we espouse
drown out by their teeth gnashing!
But then I'll be famous! As famous as Amos.
And though it's thought taboo… really, who could blame us?
"What a dashing young couple!" would be what they all said.
For I would be dashing and he (in a couple years), dead.
And then I'd be sitting, all pretty with gloat,
since I had a bulletproof car and a boat,
and a bulletproof bathroom, and a bulletproof tan.
I would be invincible, even while on the can.

For you can't shoot the Pope, nor Mrs. the Pope, neither.
I could have things your way or my way or either.
I could have omelettes without touching the eggs,
I could pay ballerinas to crack them with their legs.
I could smoke cigars and wear wax mustaches.
I could smote enemies and blow snot on their ashes.
I could pass bulls, writs and papal decrees.
I could have chocolate without asking please.
I could take religion and turn it on its head,
and say Jesus was Hispanic and he wet the bed.
That Monday is sock day and Sunday is hat day,
and Tuesday and Thursday are Be Nice To Your Cat Days.
I could wear swanky hats and tell priests to get bent
and say things like "These buffalo wings are heaven-sent!"
I could go to Aruba and if the locals should scoff,
my lackeys would say "Mrs. the Pope is here!
Clear the island! Get off!"

For with Mrs. the Pope you just do not mess.
I could sell off on eBay all the things that I bless!
I'll rename Rome Rubber Rome, then bring it to its knees,
and I'll make sure that every store carries Pope Cheese.
I don't care if it's a shoe store or a tutu store,
they can call it The Pope Cheese, Shoes, Tutus and More Store.
And then I'll be richer than my wildest dreams,
So I'll have to dream wilder, of kneesocks on bees
and teatherballs roasted like glazed honey hams,
and the children eat telephones instead of sweet yams,
and glaciers sing harmonies of Happy Birthday to Me,
and I used karate to chop down a tree.
That's it! It's settled. The Pope's wife I'll be.
I can't believe it took so long to occur to me.
Now where to begin? Without a battle plan I'm hosed.
Ah! I'm off to check my email.

In case he proposed!

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