When Old Men

When old men dress in ancient robes

selected by tradition

and totter round the chapel poles

avoiding clear suspicion

They talk and whisper, wink and groan

consider each selection

the future sure from one their own

to lead a new direction

They pray the prayers as written down

in language now forgotten

except by those who gather round

which makes it not so rotten

So finally a vote is cast

then later there's another

until consensus holds them fast

to choose their ancient brother

He humbly bows and takes their hands

and listens as they say

we will be loyal in our lands

for you we will always pray

And prayer my friends he'll surely need

to chart such a different course

away from stagnant foul greed

that rides this Italian horse

To stem a country's lack of belief

another's superstitions

to silence all sexual grief

while the world lost inhibitions

You will not change nor yield nor see

you'll keep the tried and true

you'll pray for what will never be

a tradition that is new

When old men dress in ancient robes

yet dream of a rushing wind

they wonder inside wrinkled lobes

just how should we now begin

The way is daunting - more is less

for us we can't conspire

to clear the chambers of this mess

They'll need the tongues of fire