Oh, how can I believe in him?I’ve never seen these “cherubim”;Nor have I seen apostles bowBefore his kind and snow-white brow.I think he’s gone or maybe dead;Or maybe Earth spins round his head.It’s been a few millennia. . .Perhaps it’s schizophreniaThat all Earth’s faults might well explain-That awful sickness of the brain;

And whom does he refer to whenHe sees a sinner sin again?”Oh, God!” “Right here!” “What do you need?””When will these people cease to breed?””Maybe things might have been betterIf you’d made the oceans wetter.Then they all would play with gleeIn that deep blue eternity.”

“So, that’s the key?” he asks himselfWhile thumbing through a vast bookshelf.”It’s hard to say. . .” he second-guesses;”Even you’ve created messes.Remember that damn Hitler guy?Or that old Greek with just one eye?””I meant to do it. . .” he defendsHimself against his “evil” ends.

If God could make mistakes so hugeWhen playing with life’s centrifuge,How do we know that it is heWho spins Earth horizontally?It seems his spot is wobbling,His reputation hobbling.We might well cast his mind asideTo pop his swelling sense of pride.