The minute hand motioning for midnight God heard a harrowing honk A bloke bawling for his precarious payment Cursing the courteous creator for his conk.
Dear One, he howled Thou art not fair, I say Thou benedicted my brothers with beguiling bequests But me, with horrendous hatch and hay.
I tussle to tranquil the turmoil Demons of desultory income deter my dream How am I to lodge in such lopsided lanes? With measly money murdering my esteem?
God said buffoon bloke I gave all men ears, heads and eyes Blue water, green grass and vast, clear skies A little vent in the face to stuff mustard with rice A big brain to use if you would be wise. A beatific body and bulky buttocks to spout If you miss something, make a shout
Some sapiens succeed while some sit sad Cursing life for the times of agonizing bad But remember always, the man the world loves Is neither rich nor poor, but the one who truly serves!