God, That Old Bastard
God, that old bastard (no father on record)
has showered disfavours on me:
I look sour and obtuse and Iím bald, which reduce
my temptations to screw up my life.
So Iíll just celebrate my wrinkles, my pate;
Godís sins get a waiver from me:
Iíve got friendship and health, Iíve got sex, Iíve got wealth...
but must it all be with my wife?
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Robin Helweg-Larsen
would be pleased to hear them.