Friuli peasants called Goodwalkers
March with fennelstalks;
Against a warlock's sorghum wand,
They're poor men's seraph swords. They beat the boundaries of fields
To guard our stock and children,
But those the Inquisition catch
Are burned in town as witches.
I got hauled up for telling pubs
My thoughts upon Creation
Like Hildegarde's fourth vision,
Drawing on cheesemaking
How first the oceans broke like whey
When God rose up like curd,
Then angels grew like worms in cheese
To start to turn the world
My theories reached the Inquisition
And soured its biggest cheeses
For suggesting something rotten lurked
In the lineage of Jesus.
Banker, alchemist and prince
The Inquisition cowed;
Even Galileo once
Before its wisdom bowed
But one thing's sure, the thinking poor
For truth must really burn:
At least the line I walked was mine
And proved a worm can turn.
