Tuesday, April 1, 2014
Well, I'll Be Damned.
Brick is the characteristic material
Of the bishopric. They stacked that shithouse
High and millions strong,
The buttresses submerged in its mass.
Every effigy he could order
Stood up like fence posts against the walls,
But dig as you might, the Tarn won't
Shake loose one useful stone for your purposes.
Lots of jobs in erecting that fortress,
And still no shortage of fortresses
To storm. But you know,
He couldn't get anyone in to paint it.
Had to send pretty far afield
For the anonymous masters to conjure up
The torture scenes for the walls.
These parts had seen enough of that.
Poor Cecilia, sweet fake saint;
They say the stroke of the sword
To your neck birthed harmony.
What a laugh, your castle, what a big
Joke! 8 million bricks, and it's not over yet.
Here is the song she sang for her supper:
She would meet the angel in secret,
At night, on the road, meet him
At the third milestone, but she will not wed.
The inquisitor clicks his castanets.
You're like every daughter
Of this county; he will have you
Sing for him too.
Image: Albi Cathedral, Wiki Commons. Big boy, huh?