Post by Barry Hodges, Bard of Gosforth on Nov 23, 2011 18:00:09 GMT
People think that Rome is a beautiful city,
Full of churches, capuccini and espressi and latte
And handsome singing waiters with snake hips,
A place where it's easy to get a really nice spaghetti all vongole.
But there is another side to the Eternal City,
A side darker than Donny Darko's darkside,
Believe me, I know, I have been there, my dears,
And I have seen it in all its hideous fearfulness.
I was wandering gaily around the Vatican City,
With my deformed nephew in his nice new shiny wheelchair,
When a gang of sex-mad Roman Catholic priests,
(probably criminal immigrants from rural Donegal),
Sky-high on communion wine and full of hallucinogenic pizza,
Attacked us, mugged us, gave us a right regal thumping,
And we tried to run - but, O terrible twist of fate,
My nephew's malfunctioning wheelchair hindered our escape.
And those evil Paddies left him lying there in the gutter,
His brain (never good at the best of times) pulverised,
And for what? They objected to his gobbing at some religious relics,
A lump of phlegm having landed in a sensitive spot.
And thus he spent a miserable half-alive existence
For a few weeks in a garlic-infested smelly hospice;
Dear God, I will probably not go to Rome again in a hurry,
Especially bearing in mind the unfavourable exchange rate
And the high risk of the Euro going down the toilet.
Full of churches, capuccini and espressi and latte
And handsome singing waiters with snake hips,
A place where it's easy to get a really nice spaghetti all vongole.
But there is another side to the Eternal City,
A side darker than Donny Darko's darkside,
Believe me, I know, I have been there, my dears,
And I have seen it in all its hideous fearfulness.
I was wandering gaily around the Vatican City,
With my deformed nephew in his nice new shiny wheelchair,
When a gang of sex-mad Roman Catholic priests,
(probably criminal immigrants from rural Donegal),
Sky-high on communion wine and full of hallucinogenic pizza,
Attacked us, mugged us, gave us a right regal thumping,
And we tried to run - but, O terrible twist of fate,
My nephew's malfunctioning wheelchair hindered our escape.
And those evil Paddies left him lying there in the gutter,
His brain (never good at the best of times) pulverised,
And for what? They objected to his gobbing at some religious relics,
A lump of phlegm having landed in a sensitive spot.
And thus he spent a miserable half-alive existence
For a few weeks in a garlic-infested smelly hospice;
Dear God, I will probably not go to Rome again in a hurry,
Especially bearing in mind the unfavourable exchange rate
And the high risk of the Euro going down the toilet.
