An Ode to Mullen

The Rev Peter Mullen is in a high huff
Because the public has so called his bluff,
And not just one bluff but now its another,
Because he's gone on - blaming gay culture.

It's not an apology, 'cause that's not intended
For those he'd have tatooed when over they're bended,
Or marked a warning around the gay mouth
When it's out of his gob that he's been so uncouth.

He adds on Muslims to his many more curses,
For when they head-knock he looks at their arses;
And when on pilgrimage, as all they must,
He interprets their holiness as little but lust.

Indeed when there, as they circle the Ka'ba
The highlight for sure of the spiritual path,
He cannot see accident, or tragedy in fervour,
But rather he writes of "agreeable" death.

He bashes women for "eroticising the altar":
Worshipping the earth, like it's all pagan myth;
He cannot see it's his patriarchy at fault here,
Out of step when his time starts to shift.

The Church, at long last, may be getting a move on
To have some bishops that are female and expressive;
He'll have nothing to do with a "feminised" "coven",
Of this world and its impact he is only dismissive.

He's cracked at the Archbishop, wondering if there:
The Welshman in Canterbury, as like a wraith Druid;
But it's all misrepresented, he doesn't just bother,
The argument's not made: it's utterly bare.

Condemned by so many
He'd still get a welcome:
He matches the views
Of so many in GAFCON.

If England's more tolerant,
Some can still give home,
It could be on offer
Far down Southern Cone.

Or perhaps, with his wince,
And his lack of any care,
He'll get to the new Province
Of North America.

Meanwhile his parishioners,
As the economy goes bust,
Throw'n themselves out their windas,
Not bathed in such lust.

Oh what a true knob,
As he forgets his real job,
Of those pastoral needs
As the economy bleeds.

Ah, but, Stock Market also did motion
To make dismissal of its 'ssociation
As it realised his timidity
In his other view of liquidity.

So he's little left to do
Than the sixteen sixty two,
And saying, God, he's sinned,
As his gobbed words get binned.

Would we forget this fool
Who bathes in his drool,
As, within these shores,
He fails his lost cause?

For this is the problem -
That they still can imagine:
That you put on a robe
And become homophobe.

Instead of its lurch,
Perhaps, one day, this Church,
Will become simply a space
Where his view has no place.

As ever, it's still weak;
The Diocese will speak:
But it's little of a dismissal,
Saying, 'Not us: it's not official.'

It should be so clear:
That if folk you malign,
Then there's only one option,
And it's that you resign.