The Urge; or, Demi-Deity Distorts Own Death: a Meterhyme

The Urge seems allergic to Jesus's cheeses:
one sniff -- one stiff whiff -- 'n' divinity wheezes.
(His "Renda' ta Caesa' da t'ings what be Caesa's," tho', 

won't cease to tease us -- albeit displease us.)

The Urge hums a dirge with this parti pris thesis:

if, dude, you'd roam nude, best to update your visas --

lest out of your frying pans into my freeza's

you land, gland-in-hand, joining local mestizas.

Would Urge simply splurge, seize caprice, i.e., Greece's, 

or, better, sublet 'til the legalese ceases,

or even believe in the Tridentine missus, 

he'd purge any urge to converge with the rhesus. 

But Urge, on the verge (infeliz exegesis!),

descends, 'midst amends, iv'ry Babels 'n' Pisas

to, like once rever'd but now obsolete gezza's,

declare, "I'll repair to the realms of King Croesus."