It’s time again to print some pokes,
Poems telling stale old jokes —
Today our theme may make you cringe
Since nothing really rhymes with “orange.”
So this man arrives in heaven, and walks up to Saint Peter
Behind whom are a million clocks, upon a giant wall.
“Can you tell me what they’re for?” “Each is a lying meter,”
Responds the world’s first pontiff, outside the hallowed hall.
“Each measures truth and falsehoods when a living person speaks,
And for each lie he tells, the hands advance a single minute.
The Dalai Lama’s hasn’t budged once in a thousand weeks.
And for all I know, Malala’s might well have cobwebs in it.”
Indeed, some clocks were inching on, some seemed to barely run.
“Is there one for Donald Trump?” asked the puzzled man.
Saint Peter smiled and said, “I’m glad you asked that, son —
The Good Lord keeps it in his office — it’s his ceiling fan.”
Why should a person
At the chance jump
To work for the pope
But not Donald Trump?
The answer is simple
It’s about osculation
And what is required
For your occupation:
To work for Pope Francis
(And here’s the main thing)
All you must kiss
Is his papal ring.
On a trip to Jerusalem, Trump’s life was lost
A heart attack took him — This led to a choice:
“We’ll ship him back home at a very high cost,”
(Intoned the mortician, in funereal voice)
“Or we can bury him here, for nary a dime ...
The decision is yours, and please take your time.”
His handlers pondered, came up with a plan:
“We’ll take him back home — that seems the right call.”
“Please explain why,” said the all-black-clad man.
“He loved our great city, and it’s holy and all.”
The handlers said, “Okay, this might seem odd —
But it’s sorta about the existence of God.”
“Kindly explain,” the mortician implored
(He asked in real puzzlement, eyes opened wide)
“How is this vaguely about our Dear Lord?”
“Well, two thousand years ago, another man died
Right here in Jerusalem. But then he returned!
We just can’t take that chance,” they said, really concerned.