Too many seek to be the jester in
The court where Stupid God rewards the sin
Not of not knowing but of turning again
Away from knowing when knowledge is plain
To find, as now, and none have to refrain
From drinking deep at its well. No, the stain
Upon their souls is in refusing gifts
Of such sort as each of us uplifts,
Preferring instead to maintain the rifts
That hinder them and keep them from their ease,
That keep them riven with the foul disease
By which the Stupid God alone is pleased.
They can cavort, of course, as they desire--
But we must pay who did not give them hire.
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