Poetry

The Riddling Fiddles

The riddles in your fiddles aren’t worth the fuddle, Your fibs are froth of flip and fling,
The fuddle in your fiddles aren’t worth the riddles, You flip and fling your froth of fibs,
That has things unto which to cling, Which have no prospects of wearing a blink.

For Innocent he is not, Pope of the third; with his blubber bottomed baboons, of babbling Bishops, battering down our bleeding broods, with Babel brutes. The frightening freak, they found and flung, were fast and furious, sometimes superior, They were armed from head to heel, and hailed as heroes, in the hall of Paul, With truncheon to bludgeon, and the spear of fear to spare.

For Pope of the third, Innocent he is not; with his Dictum of kill them all and all of them, the lord will recognise his own, when he is home alone. You taught; the doctrine of, Messing with our brain, to leave your mess in our crest. Pontificating and perambulating, on parting prance of peerless pangs.

Gland, of our pituitary, perpetually persecuting purposeless puzzles of piffles.  Pineal, of our gland, especially sparse, of super power. Cluttering our crowns with your chronic chaos, Spinning our spirits into spineless spooks.

The fuddle in your fiddles aren’t worth the riddles, You flip your fibs on froth. Flipping and flinging of your fibs, has no ringing to bling. Your erroneous history; in mystery, is cryptically risky, on the lips of Robed Iscariot, the Judas jettisoned. Jiggling and Juggling like Jesuit Jake. Your dithering dictators, are dawdling, in the doctoring our doodles.