Feel free to publish, post, or pass on Your Weekly Politickle by F.R. Duplantier:
Robert Mueller was forced to conclude
Donald Trump is incredibly shrewd:
Though it looks to the throng
Like he did nothing wrong,
He conspired so as not to collude.
From the archive
He’s condemned to a pain-filled parade,
Falling thrice (even with Simon’s aid),
Hearing sad women’s sighs,
Then he’s stripped, nailed, and dies,
From the cross taken down, and tomb-laid.
BURST OF IRE
Now their rage is at its peak
As we turn the other cheek:
Because of Christ
We are despised
All the more in Passion Week.
On a phone or computer or pod,
These exclamatory letters are odd:
When you breathe your last breath
And can no longer text,
Will you log off and cry, “Oh, my God!”?
At the Passion poor Peter did thrice
Deny Him ere the cock could crow twice:
When we too face the Terror,
Will we make the same error
And insist that we never knew Christ?
Do you feel you’ve been left in the lurch
And not found what you sought in your search?
Why continue to roam
When it’s time to come home?
Why not join us this Easter in church?
Now our enemies freely attack us –
Pillage, plunder, despoil, and ransack us –
But we once had a voice
And were offered a choice,
Whereupon we cried, “Give us Barackus!”
Though they say it’s a post-Christian time
And we follow a new paradigm,
There are martyrs galore,
More than ever before:
Christianity’s now at its prime.
Demons dread this day,
They hate to hear us say
Year after year
The phrase they fear:
¡Viva Cristo Rey!
WITNESS FOR THE PERSECUTION
“Can I get a tattoo, Dad?” said she.
“It can be quite expensive,” said he.
“Why not wait and emboss
On your forearm a cross?
Let the government do it for free.”
IN HOC SIGNO VINCES
Raise high the holy cross
And show them Who is boss:
Fight the merchants of death
With every breath
And never count the cost.
When tornadoes come whirling your way,
You get down on your knees and you pray:
You’re just glad you’re not dead,
Have a roof overhead –
Nothing else seems to matter that day.
So begins the passion play:
Evil triumphs for a day,
But Friday’s cross
Redeems our loss
And confirms us in the Way.
Tell me how can an innocent Child –
Holy Infant, so tender and mild –
Be the object of scorn
From the moment He’s born:
Rejected, resented, reviled?
How fully prim piety fails
And scarcely scapegoating avails
When I add my own ration
To Christ’s frightful passion
And with my hands help drive in the nails.
Critics say it’s a judgmental story
With scenes that are overly gory,
But that’s what you’re liable
To read in the Bible
Of sacrifice leading to glory.
P.C. (POST CHRISTIAN)
The other children teased her
For being a faithful feaster:
When the pagan takes
His seasonal breaks,
She celebrates Christmas and Easter.
Why do liberals like to besmirch
Institutions confirmed by research
As conducive to wealth,
Happiness, and health –
Such as marriage, the family, and church?
* * * * *
My obesity just isn’t funny
And I’m suing for bundles of money:
When a basket of candy
Is too full and too handy,
Who’s to blame but the old Easter Bunny?
While walking with the abbot,
Which was his daily habit,
A monk who spied
Hares side by side
Said, “That’s the east-er rabbit!”
Last week’s limerick
All the peoples on earth, all the nations,
Have endured some unjust subjugations:
Is there one you can name
Who cannot make a claim
To their long overdue reparations?