A Bull of Excommunication From An Anonymous Excommunicator
[Publisher's Note: I was alerted yesterday to the following poem that was, it appears, written in response to Cover-Ups Always Unravel, Well, Almost Always. Readers can determine for themselves if the poem is a carefully reasoned rebuttal to the points that I made in Cover-Ups Always Unravel, Well, Almost Always.
[The prefact to the poem, written by the anonymous excommunicator, indicates that I have expelled myself from the Catholic Church by leaving Saint Getrude the Great Church. Those who cannot see that such a belief is indicative of a schismatic, if not cult-like, mentality will be very impressed by the following poem, which I accepted yesterday as a great birthday gift sent to me from Our Blessed Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ to unite myself with the humiliation that my sins imposed upon Him during His Passion and Death, especially when He was crowned with thorns.
[I forgive the author(s) of this poem, conscious that my sins deserve far, far worse than that they have given me. It is good to be humiliated in this life. With Saint Francis of Assisi I way with gratitude and with joy, Deo gratias! I have animus for no human being. I will the good of all in my prayers each day, especially for those who disagree with or hate me. Deo gratias!]
2009 SPIRIT OF PROTESTANTISM WINNERS:
Thomas Drolesky and Markus Ramolla -
For breaking from the Holy Roman Church and setting themselves up as their own authority.
"We do not need the Paraclete,
"To teach us false from true,
"Or those whom Christ Himself has sent,
"To tell us what to do."
Ballad of the Armchair Pope
I
Droleskey was a bitter man;
His heart was full of spite:
A has-been academic fraud,
Who never learned to write.
"But write I must, to rid the world,
"Of holy priests," quoth he,
"For I alone possess the truth,
"And God's authority.
"Episcopal decisions all,
"Shall henceforth pass through me,
"That I should be the final word:
"For, I'm in charge, you see."
He spends his "life" soliciting
Donations from the mob:
With only faded, has-been dreams,
He cannot keep a job.
No culture, taste, or languages
To this big oaf belong,
(The list of what he cannot read
Is therefore rather long.)
He thinks himself a canonist,
A magnus doctor, too,
But of his own iniquity,
He doesn't have a clue.
In Canon Law he never took,
A solitary class,
But now he claims in this domain,
All others to surpass!
Appearances of dignity
And old gray hairs belie
The washed-up relic's specialty
Was strictly Poli Sci.
(Oh Poli Sci, sweet Poli Sci,
False science made of air,
Your doctorates were given out,
Like candy at a fair!)
II
Droleskey was a misanthrope,
A loner filled with spite,
A has-been fraud who didn't have
The sense of wrong or right.
Without a shred of charity,
Much less of faith or hope,
But full of dime-store piety,
He made himself a pope.
"From parish church to parish church,
"Forever shall I roam,"
"My papal judgment seat," quoth he,
"Shall be my motor home!
"I'll count priests' crimes, and publish them,
"For all the world to see!
"And after I have cut them down,
"Beware! I'll turn on thee."
He asks the faithful secretly
To turn their clergy in,
And makes his website's every page
A clearinghouse of sin.
The fat lump sits upon his chair,
And gathers, day and night,
The false reports of those who hate:
Black narratives of spite.
And all day long, he publishes,
Without a pause to pray,
Without a soul to utter prayer,
The slanders of the day.
The slanders and the calumnies,
The gossip and the hate:
He cannot wait to find a priest
To publicly berate.
He cannot wait until the next
Incoming batch of lies,
And libels form the basis of
The Church's own demise.
For, men like these, without a life,
Take pleasure in the kill,
Behind the mask of Christian love,
They murder for the thrill.
Like Caiaphas, he roused the mob
With trumped-up evidence,
And gather'd other Pharisees
To swell his audience,
To judge a holy man of God,
Who standeth all alone,
And thirsting blood each vied to be
The first to cast a stone.
III
Droleskey was an angry man,
Who fostered war and strife:
They take the lives of other souls,
Who do not have a life.
Against our Holy Mother Church,
An altar did he raise,
That other self-made popes
Might offer him their praise.
Romalla answer'd Laypope's call,
Before 'twas even made,
For, with thirty silver pieces
Was he already paid:
He had an up-and-running church,
Without a single lack,
Before he even took his knife
From out his bishop's back.
But not before the two had fleeced
St. Gertrude's gentle flock,
Of money, honor, even souls,
Through meretricious talk.
Aye, long before the fatal day
The con-man was ordained,
To claim one day a bishop's throne
He secretly campaigned.
To claim one day a bishop's crown
Emboss'd with golden thread,
He plotted, plann'd, but now, alas,
He shares old Laypope's bed:
The bed of of disobedience,
The bed of deadly pride,
The nuptial bed of lawlessness,
With schism as his bride!
With schism in his crafty heart
He had himself ordained;
Through schism the impostor swiped
The souls God's Church had gained.
Two years a priest and now he leads
A sect he organized
While living off another's work,
And as his friend disguised!
Two years a priest and now his fame
Is spread through Laypope's lies,
And no one seems astonish'd at
His meteoric rise.
"I do not need superiors,
"To bind me to a vow:
"Because," quoth he, "The whole world knows,
"I'm holier-than-thou.
"Droleskey is my teacher now,
"The man whom I obey,
"Who rips apart my enemies
"If I don't get my way.
"Together we'll reform the Church,
"And in the Church's name,
"Just like my Prussian ancestors,
"Reformers of great fame.
"We'll draw them in with Latin things,
"I'll wear my cassock too,
"And teach that Peter's Primacy,
"Was never really true.
"That common sense, a few old books,
"Replace authority,
"For Luther taught that laymen rule
"By their majority.
"We do not need the Paraclete
"To teach us false from true,
"Or those whom Christ Himself has sent
"To tell us what to do.
"Whoever hates Christ's Church the most
"Will come with bags of cash:
"I'll hand them all the souls we've duped
"And sell them in a flash."
For Laypope's creature cannot stop,
By simply moving on:
Division and destruction are
What he is set upon.
Division and destruction are
The essence of his game,
Nor will he stop until such time
As he has met his aim.
IV
Droleskey was a vengeful man,
Of envy, wrath, and spite,
Who traded friends for cold, hard cash,
Who lived to brawl and fight.
How sad that men would follow him,
Who preys upon the poor,
The poor sad souls attracted to
This obsolescent boor;
How sad his German puppet would,
So quickly lead astray
Poor souls to serve his sect, because
He didn't get his way,
Whose children all have been removed
From discipline and love,
To proud rebellion's anti-school
To bear the fruits thereof;
Poor souls who leave behind a church,
That they themselves had built,
To please a crypto-Protestant
Who feels no shame or guilt,
Whose life is a conspiracy,
His work a black cabal
His fruits a hundred souls condemned
To share his cup of gall.
A hundred souls condemned to turn
Their backs on all they had,
To trade their faith for anarchy,
Their bishop for a cad,
Not knowing that behind the scenes,
Ramolla's handlers smile,
And hand him cash for every soul
He leads to them through guile.
But playing victim goes so far:
Soon pocket-books run dry,
A priest who groans about his lot,
Grows suspect by and by.
He makes a mockery of Christ,
Who simpers, whines, and sobs,
Who grumbles all the more it seems,
The more he loots and robs.
A priest whose every oily word
Is crisis and despair,
Who cries "Poor me!" unceasingly
Is seen as full of air.
Moral
And this, my friends, is where I end,
This little history,
My subjects are irrelevant,
Their crimes a mystery,
The mystery of all who hate
The servants of our Lord,
Of all the smiling hypocrites
Who live but by the sword.
Ramollas there have always been,
To form their ugly bands
Of those who trade the work of God
For work of human hands.
