"The Popish and Prot": An Ecumenical Sonnet

"Tradition, Tradition, you schismatic,"

Tells my Romanish brother who stands up

Atop his perch, looking madly manic,

While I cringe before him, small as a pup.

Bible in hand, the Saints in the other,

I whimper to him, "I know Christ, too, friend,

I'm a branch in His tree, He's my brother,

And He'll embrace my face, too, in the end.

Though our forefathers fought among themselves,

We will stand, side by side, you and me, man;

We'll smell deeply the incense and the bells

Of our Lord, as He grants us His good land."

"Believe what you want," says my popish pal,

Yet he looks towards me differently now.