I revere Pope Alexander's son Cesare Borgia as the Caucasian Jesus
'cause his pale mug on Christmas cards is the pale mug that pleases
we schlubs dining on rice & noodles topped with sixty-two cheeses
that attacks hearts pulsing for a Jehovah God who hears and sees us
& forgives us our frailties, our burps, belches, nose hairs & sneezes
in the belly of this tundra where whatever we puke instantly freezes
after quivering like pudding being gagged by consumptive wheezes
mirroring divorced forces ruinous to wives who were John Cleese's
street-walking, clap-ridden, bone-eating, mongrel-dog-faced nieces
who like Walter Sickert's Jack the Ripper would rip you into pieces
then steal your 100-trillion-dollar-Hispaniola-oil-drilling-held leases