with H.G. Peterson
Papal Love Song
H.G. Peterson is the founder and former-Viceroy of the British colony of East Sungir. Besides being a Pulitzer Prize and Peabody Award winning poet, he also collects potato chips shaped like cast members of the television show Maude.
I see him walking down St. Peter’s Square
His bulbous nose, his short white hair
His golden robes, his pointy hat
I think “I’ve got to get me some of that”
If only he would talk to me
I’d tell him how I’d want him to be
I want to be with him forever
Spending our days and nights together
We would go out in the morning sun
Through the streets of Rome searching for fun
And long after the sun sets in late afternoon
Together we’ll gaze up at the moon
Under the bullet proof plastic dome
I would whisper in his ear my love poem
And as he got turned on by my rhymes
We’d get in the backseat and have a good time
Then back in the walls of Vatican city
Where the sunlight makes him look so pretty
We’d dance until the sun rise came
And I would say his name…
John Paul, I love you, I want you to know
That I think our love should grow
And we should always be together too
Just hanging out, me and you
Pontiff, my pope, with your big pointy chapeau
I really want to jump your bones
Get me some of that wild and rough papal action
Ram you so hard you break a hip, and end up in traction
But I would come to hospital to visit you
Then you would know that my love is true
And you would look down at me with your big glassy eyes
Saying “I love you, and that is no lie”
Then you cough a little, because you’re so old
But then you speak again, you’re voice noble and bold
Holding my hand you say “You know, laddy
Why don’t you tell me, who’s yer daddy?”
Then we’d make love in that hospital bed
So eager and free that you’d end up dead
Because like I said, you’re really old and frail
But still you’re my idea of a hot sexy male
Then I’d take your withered member and put in my mouth
Till in total ecstasy my name you’d scream out
Your heart would ache, you’d beg me for more
I’d ram your ass till you moaned like a whore
With these thoughts on my mind, I watch you on the balcony
And for a moment I think, you look right at me
Then you go right back to conducting your mass
And I just melt, thinking about your hot papal ass.
I love you, John Paul…call me.
The crazy thing is, I could find myself singing this, and I’m a girl! Well, I’m a woman really, a mom….
I’d still go merrily along with the whole mad holy mess,
but only and purely by the Pope’s God Bless.
I saw your site, and so striaght to it I went,
Making mad love to my Pope, do it all with his consent.
And now the blessed Benedict is the man that fills the throne,
Kiss and hug and thrill him, and make his love my own.
When a lady goes unholy, this one aims right for the top,
In the game of sacred loving, best to play it without stop.
Call me, Papa. You know where I’ll be.