Fatly fatly hippo,
Fatly fatly does-
Acerb was Mr. Eliot-
Acerbic Mr. Eliot was.
The house of god was gleaming-
He wrote instead of a Savannah marsh-
Why, Mr. Eliot? Trouncing-
The true church in quatrain verse-
God is in men, and fruits
and sex, and hunting,
But never in lying domes-
Holy brazenness, holy bulky gaits,
Not in stately,
Nor in ornate homes-
It’s strange that
Lying amidst the mudslinging stain
Blessed by coarse oddities of fart,
And ravenously fleshy flippants.
Could you not, huh, Mr. Eliot,
Not not leave us in the lurch?
Two fifty ticket, where to drive-
The central zoo or church?
Sing, hippo hymn- the hope is dim.
Where is God? Nigh.
Wings borrowed from an old virgin’s kist
T S Eliot glides.