Oh, Why Must this Drivel He Sells Still Be Heard?

Sometimes people ask what kind of emails we receive here at Mortification of Spin. Well, I have to say that we do have quite a smart bunch of readers. Some especially have a good sympathy and understanding of what Todd and I have to deal with over here. This is a gem from my new internet friend, Amy Mantravadi:

 

Between the Cotswolds and the Forest of Dean

Lies a city as damp as has ever been seen

Which raises up prophets, then sends them away

That on some unfortunate souls they might prey

First, there was Whitefield, sent off to the West

Then Packer, who with such fine knowledge was blessed

And lastly, as one so unnaturally born

The roses of Gloucester have sent us a thorn

That thorn in our flesh from Lucifer sent

Of his pride and conceit, he shall never repent

For he must gain his laughs, yes, he must have his way

For he won’t be content until he’s had his say

His head far too big, his frame none too tall,

His heart, we declare, is two sizes too small

Such a spirit as his, which can never be cowed

Would make even that tyrant Napoleon proud

Such a strange theologian! He’s not fit to dine

Where Anselm breaks the bread and Jerome pours the wine

Oh, why must this drivel he sells still be heard?

Or why should he live, to fill this world with words?

In his dreams, he is playing some gig with The Who

But when most hear of him, they can only say, “Who?”

“He’s that chap who slagged off those two guys that one time!”

“Oh him? He’s still living? I thought he had died.”

Congrats to you Oxbridge! Just look what you’ve done!

Yes, we liked Thomas Cranmer, but not so this one!

For if you won’t let Wycliffe rest well in his grave

Then how can you let off a man so depraved?

A man who lives always so far in the past

He cannot even tell when his moment has passed

And he fancies himself a cowboy in the West

An outlaw from justice who can’t be repressed

We bid him now follow the words of Owen

And hasten this hour to mortify sin

No, sir, you’re no Luther  - except for the hair

Of your manifold faults, we are all quite aware

No, we still can’t believe that they pay you to teach

Much less, that some poor souls should pay you to preach!

To preside over such young, impressionable minds

Such a pity when blind men are leading the blind!

“How dare you succumb to the wages of spin?

How dare you abandon your creeds and your hymns?”

Yes, we heard you the first time – it all sounds the same

Let us send this foul immigrant back where he came!

For he takes foreign women and steals foreign jobs

And he loves foreign doctrines – just not foreign dogs

And before we all know it, we’ll soon sound like him

Like a cross between Sherlock and some Australian

Never before have we seen a case

So thoroughly leaning upon the Lord’s grace

Of his certain election, we might have our doubts

For so many commandments he would daily flout!

Yet, here in this instrument glory ignored

The light of God’s grace must shine through all the more

For if there’s hope for him, then there’s still hope for me

So to Gloucester, I suppose we must say, “We thank thee!”