All the kids settled down for the Reforween poem.
As the poem began, one kid let out a bleat,
For the damn'd thing, he saw, filled up more than one sheet.
Though he tried to contain himself, miserable goat,
He heard bleat after bleat coming out of his throat.
The father said, "Doris will you please get him out.
I will scream myself hoarse 'cause he's making me shout."
Though he tried and he tried the goat just couldn't stop
'Til the town's faithful butcher turned him into a chop.
Father's ass-kissing son said, "That bleepity-bleep
Was a waste-of-space jerk and an idiot sheep."
"Anyway," Father sighed, not correcting the boy,
"Just sit back and listen and I'm sure you'll enjoy."
Father cleared his throat once and the loudly began
To read them a poem which more or less ran
Like this...
'Twas the night before the Age of Accountability and all through the manse
Not a Baptist was sleeping, they were all at the dance...
"Hang on a sec, Dad," said, young Timmy, I think,
"That's the poem for when we've had too much to drink.
We all thought that you'd tell us about Luther's ghost
With the Theses and nails and the part I love most,
With the Wittenburg Door and the Diet of Worms
That part gets me each time and it makes us all squirm.
"Still we love it to death and we wish that you'd read
About Zwingli and Knox and the ol' Nicene Creed.
Dispensational themes get to be such a bore."
Then with all of Tim's prompting, Father started once more,
Like this...
It was Reforween night in the year of aught-five
And good ol' M. Luther was no longer live.
The Catholics cheered with the thought that he'd died
But a sinking suspicion they just couldn't hide
Was that some day he might just come back from the dead
And nail ninety-five theses to each Cath'lic head.
So a papal edict was around the world sent
And it read, if you'll pardon my dreadful accent
"Diresti ripentia sospirando
Perduto e tutto il tempo."
Which means, "Reforween night is upon us, good men,
And we must be sure HE doesn't rise up again.
"Last year's head-wounded kids are still plaguing our schools
With their blood bourne disease -- and these Protestant fools
With their dumb patron saint, Nathaniel Reformis
Call us things that we ain't and try to deform us.
Of certain foul substances he says I'm full
And he thinks the decrees that I make are all bull.
"We all wish that he'd choke on a Diet of Worms
But somehow or other, we must come to terms.
And here are the terms that I think would be good
You bring the fire and I'll bring the wood.
We will make a roast pig of that Protestant swine
And after he's charcoal, we'll sit down to dine.
"But not feed on him that would be far too crude,
And then..." "Wait dad," said Tim, "I don't want to be rude
But Cath'lics believe that, well, I think they've said,
That meat, holy eaten turns back into bread?"
"That's not quite how it goes," Doris said, "But it's true
It has to be righteous, approved by the Pope,
But if you asked me I'd say they're smoking dope."
Interrupting once more, Timmy said, "Hey, old man,
Would you keep reading on to the end, if you can?"
But then Doris, their mother, said, "Father's asleep
That is all for tonight so not one little peep
You're none of you Cath'lic so there's nothing to fear
So just run on to bed and we'll read it next year."
But Timmy, his mind filled with heretical words,
Stopped halfway upstairs, 'cause he thought that he heard...
But it couldn't, it wouldn't, oh, how could it be
The ghost of ol' Luther, or maybe Zwingli.
He ran up to his room and he shut the door tight
And he cringed at the sound of his mother's "Good night."
For he thought he heard, too, and unearthly type scream
And though lying awake, he began soon to dream
That his head had been nailed to the Wittenburg Door
But he jumped out of bed and he fell to the floor
And he screamed, "I BELIEVE!" -- And if you believe too
Then the ghost of Martin Luther will not get you.
