When God made me, there was a war on:Supplies were scarce, so He did it on the cheap.Oh, not that He produced a moronOr paraplegic by starving my fetal sleep --
No, He laid a solid foundationOf bone and tissue for the little house. (If MotherSmoked like a chimney through my gestation,That's free will, not His fault, and I'm sure He'd rather
She hadn't.) It was not on the basic structureBut on pricier options He stinted. After the unlicensedPlumbing burst in an early rupture,The narrow air ducts blocked with asthma, and I sensed
At the second or third attack that I'd beSpending my whole life paying for His penny-wisePound-foolish sense of economy.And what kind of contractor, if any, buys
Windows so worthless a horn-rimmed casing'sRequired to make them work? Or a double doorThat won't shut without metal bracings?I would have taken a loss and moved out, but for
Something I found in the attic: a boxCrammed with words of all description -- brick ones,Finely-scrolled wooden ones, intox-Icating, flowing silky ones. The fictions
I framed with those words were more than enoughTo make the place liveable, though it's taken time:New front, new walkways, costly stuffGrowing around the foundations. Now that I'm
Renovated, I plan to expandThe business: all (townhouses, exoticHoliday villas, commercial andIndustrial parks) nothing if not chic,
In fact -- why keep my great end dim? --My ultimate goal, in ten-point boldface print'sA God more opulent than the chintz-Y one who framed me. Or the one who penned Him.
