God is the perfect poet

Be sure that God Ne'er dooms to waste the strength he deigns impart.

The lie was dead And damned, and truth stood up instead.

Kiss me as if you made believe You were not sure, this eve, How my face, your flower, had pursed It's petals up.

So, Willy, let you and me be wipers Of scores out with all men — especially pipers! And, whether they pipe us from rats or from mice, If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise!

Rats! They fought the dogs and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats,

Over my head his arm he flung Against the world.