Oh look, there is St Francis throwing bolts of his father's finest fabrics
Out the window. Oh my gosh, one hit the ground and unrolled into the street!
His father, beside himself, is shouting, "For this I became a father!?"
And way off in the East over the mountains (or is it the West),
War is raging. So what else is new? (May I call you when I get like this?
When I run out of constructive things to do or think or eat, buy, lie about or believe in?
Or if the madness spreads, followed by the rotten stench of failed civilization,
May I call you, if those coconuts floating by turn out to be heads?)
Well, everything has been going pretty well, don't you think? And where the hell is God?
Maybe he is that beggar over there who can't keep his adoring eyes off
His new favorite who is about to kick off his well-stitched shoes
And give up everything he has known for the ecstasy of blessing
The heretofore neglected foundations of Creation.
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