I'll Probably Get Lynched For This

Annika, in celebrating Poetry Wednesday, wanted to do a T.S. Eliot riff on the whole Tom Cruise/Katie Holmes thing a la Eliot's "The Jellicles", but in the end settled on a straight posting of the poem, citing technical problems in the conversion.

Thinking a) that she had a great original idea and b) that perhaps it might work better with a different poem, I give you my own humble effort:

Scientology: The Mystery Sect

Scientology's a Mystery Sect: it’s called the Hidden Jaw—
For it's the master seducer of those swept in its maw.
It’s the bafflement of Hollywood, the Glitteratti’s despair:
For when they reach for spir'tul sense—Scientology’s not there!

Scientology, Scientology, there’s nothing like Scientology,
It’s broken every hubris law, it breaks the law of Divinity.
Its powers of levitation did make Travolta stare,
And when you reach for spir'tual sense —Scientology’s not there!
You may seek it in the basement, you may look up in the air—
But I tell you once and once again, Scientology's not there!

Scientology’s a snaky sect, it’s taken Cruise all in;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes and hideous grin.
His pockets deeply lined with dough, his head is highly swelled;
His last wife dusty from neglect, his latest babe compelled.
He jumps on sofas side to side, with movements like a loon;
And while you think he’s all in love, he really is a goon.

Scientology, Scientology, there’s nothing like Scientology,
For it’s a fiend in doctrine shape, a monster of controllery.
You may meet it in a by-street, you may see it in the square—
But when you reach for spir'tual sense, then Scientology’s not there!

It’s outwardly respectable. (They say it takes credit cards.)
And its fingerprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard’s.
And when the paycheck’s looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the cash is missing, or another starlet's stifled,
Or the Hollywood image is broken, and the reputation past repair—
Ay, there’s the wonder of the thing! Scientology’s not there!

And when the Studio finds a Screenplay’s gone astray,
Or the Star loses ticket sales and status by the way,
There may be an inside story in the hall or on the stair—
But it’s useless of investigate—Scientology’s not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Tabloids always say:
“It must have been Scientology!”—but it’s a mile away.
You’ll be sure to find it resting, or a-thinking on its creed,
Or engaged in doing complicated missionary screeds.

Scientology, Scientology, there’s nothing like Scientology,
There never was a Sect of such deceitfulness and suavity.
It always has an alibi, or one or two to spare:
And whatever time the deed took place—SCIENTOLOGY WASN’T THERE!
And they say that all the Sects whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Heaven's Gate, I might mention Jim Jones)
Are nothing more than agents for the Sect who all along
Just controls their operations: the L. Ron Hubbard Throng!