Can't Stop, Won't Stop
The town of Ratzinger in Germany, so quaint
In its traditions, burghers dressing up as saints,
Remains resolved to bring back pogrom past.
Why then, I say, let us get medieaval on its ass.
Stitch me a skin, a suit, of Bacchus Harlequin,
Carve me a pipe, a thyrus flute, veined in green sin;
I'll stroll into the old town square, bawdy and bold,
And with a rhyme declare their crimes gaudy and gold.
You, buggermeister, draped in guilt and gilt in ermine,
I'll say, would you rid your town of rats, of vermin
Or enforce a plague of silence, using rules to shroud
Lipservice paid to fiddler priests with children's mouths?
Is Ratzinger not rife with skittering rodents and blood-hungry fleas,
Led by a rat towards Dark Ages of crusades, fire and disease?
I'll play Ratzinger's volk a song, lead them astray;
Threaten they'll lose their children or this piper pay.
I ask no coin of gold, no tithe of dead;
I only say: bring Macial to give me head.
When he has licked my thick white licquor,
Slicked his lips to slurp my spurting ichor,
Swallowed my strings of jism, how I'll sing
And turn my tush to him, so he can kiss my ring.
Sad as a song, we know though, history repeats:
The volk of Ratzinger will lie, as sure as rodents breed.
They'll cheat the piper; this time though, I'll leave the kids
And turn my song on Ratzinger's full-grown hypocrites.
You see, if I can sing the rats of Ratzinger down to the river, lead them in,
Then we might say the death of men can "wash away our sin".