The man in the hood knew that he should
but couldn't see for the looking.
He eats special K every day
because he doesn't like cooking.
He could never quite see what he wanted to be
or taste with the tip of his tongue.
You know he is there with that terrible stare
and the tune he has stared to hum.
Stuck in the crowd the pointed white shroud
hints at something beneath.
Beware of the words like food for the birds
who peck without any teeth.
Don't give up hope let's pray for the Pope
he's good and earns his shilling,
but which is mitre, the sword or the writer?
Both in God's name appear willing.
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