In the midst of a nightmare God woke out of breath.
(The one where a shredder snagged hold of his robe.)
Wearing bunny pyjamas, a present from Death,
He flipped on the stars, set the pulsars on strobe,
Then turned on a heat lamp to help hatch the globe.
In the back of his fridge he found leftover ribs.
First, he chewed off their meat, then he built some new sexes.
He rewrote Leviticus using Mad-Libs.
Thou shalt blank with blank lest thine blank sorely vexes.
Then he launched flying saucers to buzz over Texas.
He tossed cards in Abe’s hat and through Dr. King’s halo.
He consoled a few models demoted from super.
He posted some fan mail to Dylan and J-Lo.
He pitched a new series to Whedon and Cooper.
He tried getting drunk but felt stupid, not stupor.
When he plucked on an autoharp made out of moon beams
Some notes came out sweet while the others seemed sour.
He twisted its knobs to correct out-of-tune beams.
Every song that could be, he composed in an hour.
Then he slipped off his pj’s to take a warm shower.
First, he measured forever then snipped it in two.
In a twinkle he tallied up all the world’s sheep.
While graceful with wonders, what God couldn’t do
Were the simplest of acts, many beautiful, deep.
Though he tried hard to cry, still the Lord couldn’t weep.
Although many adored him, he didn’t have friends.
He dialed up a number but got a machine.
“That nightmare recurred,” God said. “Always it ends
With you feeding a shredder my robe. You’re serene
And triumphant. I hurt you, but I didn’t mean...”
He felt his heart ache. “Son, I made a...” Sharp beep.
God returned to his bed, knowing he’d never sleep.