The Pope Of Otters
The burning smoke of the bonfires drifts down river from Toad Hall.
All along the wild-wood the watch-towers they stand tall.
There are matyrs in the bullrushes, and weasels march in shifts.
While the Conclave of the Riverbank debates what evil is.
The Otter-pope is sleek and fat, with mackeral on his chin.
He takes the view that disagreement is the chiefest sin.
There are badgers in the chain-gangs, and Old Molely's gone to earth.
While the Conclave of the Riverbank debates what life is worth.
Oh rue that day that Mighty Toad was ousted from his seat,
He was a greedy, boasting, bounder, but he didn't claim the feat,
Of whispering with the Godhead, with the tufted ear of Pan
While the Conclave of the Riverbank denies the place of Man.
Now Otters are the chosen, and the Men beyond are damned.
And if you're stoat or rabbit well you keep your whiskers clammed,
Shut to any blasphemy, or critical expression
Lest the Conclave of the Riverbank your species' place will lessen.
The Old water-rat he mutters, and wonders if he's fated
For he saved the Pope's life long ago and now he wished he'd waited.
Just a set of fleeting minutes til the little chap got skinned
Would have sorted out the future, where the flags wave in the wind.
Oh raise the flag of Outcast Toad, and reclaim all the 'banks
Before the weasels finish work on mustard gas and tanks
There's nothing wrong per se of course with a Pope who is an Otter,
But when otters are rotters then the waters getting hotter.
'What if G.K.Chesterton had written Wind In The Willows'