Like an unbuttoned St Francis
Whose birds and flowers
Were his wife and kids
He humanized all
That piety and joy
With the guilt and grief
We’ve pondered ever since
Neither adored capitalism
Just another form of monarchy
What is faith without love
When Francis was dying
He wrote his best work
Closing the door on the middle ages
While eagerly Luther opened another
To a thousand necessary devils
Leaving behind one line
‘We are beggars: that’s for sure’
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