Hey, gimme a minute--gotta confess something:

Pope's dressed to kill
Pope's dressed to kill
(Pope's dressed to kill)
His raiment's divine
(Pope's dressed to kill)

There's the office most high, and he attained the prize
Inquisitor before
But now he's the guy who is apostlized
His vestments can't be a bore

Hey, you runway girls and nun-way: eat your hearts out!
Pope's dressed to kill
('celsis deo; Pope's dressed to kill)
It is hilly in Rome
(Pope's dressed to kill)
Fashion designers' home
(Pope's gets no bill)

There was Johnny Paul; Johns and Pauls before him
To name just a few
Many have not been quite so slim
Dressed not quite as well too

Hey, you nun-way girls, swathed in gray: eat your hearts out!
Pope's dressed to kill
(Robe, alb, shoes, stole; Pope's dressed to kill)
He's sublime, divine
(Pope's dressed to kill)
He never spills the wine
(No mess, no spill)

Though he's a prelate, he's not a relic
Least in haberdashery
Even though his religion
Fosters superstition
This vicar's dressed for this century

Red shoes, some say (churls!): "He looks gay"; they ain't come out
(Pope's dressed to kill)
There's jealousy in Rome
(Pope's dressed to kill)
Of the guy on the throne
(Pope's dressed to kill)
So they wine and whine
(Pope's dressed to kill)
Their threads not as fine
(Pope's dressed to kill)
"Nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah!"
(Show shep* ill will)
"Nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah!"
(Mopes, best be still!)
Leave the man alone
(Broach less ill will)
For those "nyah, nyahs," atone!


*shepherd