Classic Poem

There is a term to every loud dispute,
A final reckoning I'm glad to say:
Some people end discussion with their boot;
Others, the prigs, will simply walk away.
But I, within a world of rank decay,
Can face its treasons with a flaming hope,
Undaunted by faith's foemen in array —
I drain a mighty tankard to the Pope!

They do not ponder on the Absolute,
But wander in a fog of words astray.
They have no rigid creed one can confute,
No hearty dogmas riotous and gay,
But feebly mutter through thin lips and grey
Things foully fashioned out of sin and soap; —
But I, until my body rests in clay,
I drain a mighty tankard to the Pope!

I've often thought that I would like to shoot
The modernists on some convenient day;
Pull out eugenists by their noxious root;
The welfare-worker chattering like a jay
I'd publicly and pitilessly slay
With blunderbuss or guillotine or rope,
Burn at the stake, or boil in oil, or flay —
I drain a mighty tankard to the Pope.

L'Envoi

Prince, proud prince Lucifer, your evil sway
Is over many who in darkness grope:
But as for me, I go another way —
I drain a mighty tankard to the Pope!