The Stupid God has many forms beside
The orange face which now does woe betide,
Many guises under which to hide,
Though they are not constructed with great skill,
The hollowness concealed that will not fill,
But, yawning, echoes sounds that make souls ill
And from illness proceed that few would treat
Who have from their long illness found defeat
And by their willing sickness have been beat.
It is true some will strive to find a cure
For that condition they too long endure,
But most are all too happy to immure
Themselves in Stupid God's foul aft discharge,
Bathing in the pool it makes grow large.
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