This poem is an open love letter from an unknown fan about one of the most flamboyant stars on the planet, who just happens to be old and German.
Your (Hero) worship
You stand on that podium in your expensive, sparkling splendour
You look like you could make the holiest of men a sex offender
But the look in your eyes promises that if I confessed, you’d never tell
You’d forgive our dirty secrets and we’d never go to hell
Against your raunchy red Prada shoes and Gucci glasses, I never had a hope
I’m entranced by your swagger and your angelic bling and I just don’t CARE that you’re the Pope.
That diamond-encrusted hat you wear gives me electric shocks
Is it true what they say about men with big golden crosses? That they have huge, throbbing flocks…
Of worshippers, who make it rain when you pass that silver plate around
But how much cheese would it take to see that designer cassock hit the ground?
You’ve got the biggest, swankiest bachelor pad in the whole of Rome
You’ve got a tricked-out, bullet-proof ride in which to take me home
You’ve got a huge gay entourage to fetch us breakfast and save your legs
They say your name is Benedict...well, hey, that’s how I like my eggs.
I dreamed about you last night and you looked at me and beckoned
Haven’t felt that excited since a young John Paul the Second
If you were an apostle, you’d be St Peter Von Teese
I hear you don’t use condoms, you’re just my kind of freak
Never thought I’d leave the strip clubs for the church, but now I’m your biggest fan
My affections are hard to win, but if anyone can, the Vati-can.
Vat-ican. Vat-ican.
Vati-can let me watch you, let me watch you vati-can, let me watch you that’s all I wanna do
Vati-can let me watch you, let me watch you Vatican, let me watch you and I’ll kneel for you.
Kneel for you.
I’ve been taken many ways, with whipped cream and syrup that’s maple-y
But you can take me to heaven and back.
Take me now
And take me
Papally.
Your (Hero) worship
You stand on that podium in your expensive, sparkling splendour
You look like you could make the holiest of men a sex offender
But the look in your eyes promises that if I confessed, you’d never tell
You’d forgive our dirty secrets and we’d never go to hell
Against your raunchy red Prada shoes and Gucci glasses, I never had a hope
I’m entranced by your swagger and your angelic bling and I just don’t CARE that you’re the Pope.
That diamond-encrusted hat you wear gives me electric shocks
Is it true what they say about men with big golden crosses? That they have huge, throbbing flocks…
Of worshippers, who make it rain when you pass that silver plate around
But how much cheese would it take to see that designer cassock hit the ground?
You’ve got the biggest, swankiest bachelor pad in the whole of Rome
You’ve got a tricked-out, bullet-proof ride in which to take me home
You’ve got a huge gay entourage to fetch us breakfast and save your legs
They say your name is Benedict...well, hey, that’s how I like my eggs.
I dreamed about you last night and you looked at me and beckoned
Haven’t felt that excited since a young John Paul the Second
If you were an apostle, you’d be St Peter Von Teese
I hear you don’t use condoms, you’re just my kind of freak
Never thought I’d leave the strip clubs for the church, but now I’m your biggest fan
My affections are hard to win, but if anyone can, the Vati-can.
Vat-ican. Vat-ican.
Vati-can let me watch you, let me watch you vati-can, let me watch you that’s all I wanna do
Vati-can let me watch you, let me watch you Vatican, let me watch you and I’ll kneel for you.
Kneel for you.
I’ve been taken many ways, with whipped cream and syrup that’s maple-y
But you can take me to heaven and back.
Take me now
And take me
Papally.