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