The old pope sits upon his leather throne
A sphinx by his side, he is not alone
The old pope has three children and a wife
They lived in his house, he lives in his home

His oldest daughter has his same green eyes
Interrupted with saline, she often cries
Her eroding cliffs have fallen to the sea
The louder his voice gets, a piece of her dies

His only son has his same rage
Fooled to live an old life at such a young age
He hates the old pope, he sees through his flaws
But the old pope always takes center stage

His youngest daughter shares his same control
A higher priestess, he drums on her soul
She is trapped in his cage, it is made of glass
Risking her life if she wants to throw stones

His beautiful wife shares her sympathy
She drowns out his snores, she drowns out his bigotry
Her voice like a mouse
His voice like a timpani

The old pope sits upon his leather throne
A sphinx by his side, he is not alone
The old pope has three children and a wife
They lived in his house, he lives in his home

The old pope will become sad at an old age
You can burn down your houses, you can burn all your sage
But his voice emanates from all of the walls

*To him we are chapters, and he, title page