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From a conclave of secrecy, hiding dispute and division
from a fallible public, in pacification's prison
The cardinals do gather, with expectancy and hope,
Each measuring the robes, that will be worn by the new Pope.
With personal rulers, forged from ordinary wood,
while in genuflection their hands, shake with the strong likelihood
Of claiming God chose him, as the Pontiff to reign
in a spiral of smoke formed from their vanquished disdain.
Then the ritual will follow more wasted millions spent,
as the red caps emerge on the carpeted pavement
With the new human God who must now make his sign
That the journalists and people can debate and refine.
Until the time comes again for another leader to fall;
That the ritual is repeated as time passes us all.
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