I was just talking to God.
He was sitting on his helmet.
He was pissing into the rosebushes.
Every other word was a world destroyed.
He mentioned he was fed up in Heaven
and longed to go it alone,
start a business repairing furnaces,
invest in racehorses,
breed show dogs on the side;
he said it was quite lucrative,
that the market was wide open.

No, you just missed him, a god’s god,
about yay-high, blue eyes,
icy fire where his hair ought to be.
We’re playing cribbage next Friday.
We’re going to a strip club,
and probably a few drinks after.

And he knows you too, he said.
He’s well aware of your little ‘problem’,
would really like to help you out,
but he’s taken a pledge;
didn’t elaborate much though.
And he’s chubbier than you’d imagine.
Too many cupcakes, he confessed,
a bit sheepish about it too.

He was just in the neighbourhood
and thought he’d drop by.
At least that’s what he told me.
And I can’t imagine he’d lie about it,
not something petty like that.