Cursed with a wall-eye that the blest will shun,

A giant body and a face unfit

Even to have tomatoes hurled at it,

A prodigy, son of a monk and nun.

The prophet Enoch will lambast the liar,

Elijah too – they'll spring out of a hatch

In St Paul's church, between the nave and choir.

Satan will slither up from hell to snatch

His share, snarling it out with the Messiah.

And earth will be a plucked up cabbage patch.

The Last Judgment

At the round earth's imagined corners let

Angels regale us with a brass quartet,

Capping that concord with a fourfold shout:

"Out, everybody, everybody out!"

Then skeletons will rattle all about

Forming in file, on all fours, tail to snout,

Putting on flesh and face until they get,

Upright, to where the Judgment Seat is set.

There the All High, maternal, systematic,

Will separate the black souls from the white:

That lot there for the cellar, this the attic.

The wing'd musicians now will chime or blare a

Brief final tune, then they'll put out the light:

Er-phwhoo.

And so to bed.

Owwwwwww.

Bona sera.