What's the pope do? Drinks, and takes a nap;
looks out the window, has a bite to eat,
fiddles with the housemaid's garter strap,
and makes the town a cushion for his feet.
No kids for him; a family man he's not —
why should he bother with his own brass band
when, come what may, he'll be the first on hand
to get whatever soup is in the pot?

He thinks he owns the earth — it's mine, all mine —
the air and water, bread and wine, the sun —
as if no dog but he could have a bone.
He'd almost almost like to be alone
in all the world, like God — it might be fun —
before he made the angels and mankind.