On a carpeted bench, thirteen well-chosen priests,
All tutored and drilled in an excellent miming.
The Last Supper staged to the sonorous chiming
Of the Pope's special choir in silks and batistes.

His Holiness, bibbed with an apron of lace,
Arises sedately from his great purple chair
And draws off thirteen socks leaving thirteen feet bare,
Washes each in a basin of gold, and with grace

Presents thirteen bouquets, and a paper of coins,
Returns to his carved purple chair, bows, and joins
His well-mannered hands in a semblance of prayer.

Thirteen silver plates laid on exquisite lawn,
Thirteen eager priests' noses snuffing the fare:
Herring salad, broccoli in oil. And each pawn

Gulps the wine the Pope pours. While behind the Pope's guards,
In a stiff inattention, plan their next game of cards.