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.
