Bethlehem

They whip us no more in Bethlehem,
just chained and nailed to the wall.
Sixpence to see the menagerie,
Old Michael, dumb Willum, mad Kate and me.

Simon St Mary was good for a start
but Mad Melancholy now stand at the gate.
A Pope may proclaim them brazen and tainted
But old Cibber won’t care if as Evil they’re painted.

With the blood and the spirits of inmates forgotten
Whipped in furies of pain for five centuries on.
Dr Willis restrains the chief of our hatters
Divines rights of no whipping for Hanover’s son.

Imperial purple is pissed up the wall
Old George lost his farm to perdition and all.
But small comfort is seen through porphyric haze
My friends give their thanks to their Lord and great praise

For they whip us no more in Bethlehem.