Funny if Our Maker was
A type to lead us, all of us,
Like donkeys 'cross a barren field
Trailing the carrot of Truth.
Dangling inches out of reach,
Our Maker taunts our gnashing teeth
While out of sight His other arms
Dement the world at his whim.
Taste the carrot and you'll see that
We are no donkeys, you, we, me,
But jointly hairs upon His back
Damned to follow the beast.
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