St. Jude was nailed upon a rod
And a bird had nested there.
The Prince of Tyre and Ephraim
Made a god of him, despaired.

Prufrock had then busied himself
And could earn his loathsome lot
From St. Jude, whose poetry,
Was called Apollo's, a god's.

Prufrock lived long, loved his life
And dreamily thumbed his belt;
He wore suspendered trousers
But did drown himself in hell.

He lived with pleasure; "his" songs
Had won him beautiful wife.
The pleasure of her soft skins
Greatly eased all of his strife.

Yet a third had watched it all
Wondering oft when the throngs
Of merry mischief makers
Would then listen to his songs.

For the Godmakers had made
St. Jude their blasphemous rock.
Yet when they crucified him,
He said, 
"Cursed be all who call me God!"