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The Conference at Mantua

Ah, what a scene of tranquil learnedness! 
The scholars nurse their tomes like babes in arms: 
white locks: heads cocked to savor the address 
of Pius, in his charming Latin: balm 

floats in through high-arched, airy colonnades. 
The lake is laced with skittish little skiffs: 
those rolling lawns of Mantua could be made 
to sport a kick-ass golf course. Oh, those cliffs! 

But life just ain't that peachy. Belching blame, 
the Cardinals did squat, but bleat and bitch. 
No representatives invited, came. 
And Mantua was a cramped, unhealthy pitch. 

Scarampo wasn't much inclined to linger. 
With imprecations colouring the air, 
he gave the Pope the metaphoric finger, 
and rode away, at haste -- to God knows where. 

The Lake was nothing but a sluggish stream. 
It bred mosquitoes in malevolent clouds. 
The croaking frogs made sleep a pious dream. 
The locals were more oafish than in Stroud. 

Bessarion stayed true, and Torquemada. 
A basis, then, for troops to rally on: 
but Europe's bookends? "Altar y espada" 
is not much use among Italians! 

At last, some envoys came -- but far from helping, 
they asked for help! From Burgundy came Cleves, 
but not disposed for listening, more for yelping 
about the local petulance and peeves. 

And when they paint the frescoes of your life, 
they'll airbrush out the unappealing grunge. 
They'll strip away the struggle and the strife. 
And you'll bequeathe what's pretty (dung expunged).

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