The wrinkled citrus avatar the Stupid God commands
Is working to put power into the Stupid God’s hands
And thereby wreak more ruin across the faces of the lands
Until, distracted, people yield to all of its demands.
Against that damnéd deity, too small a group still stands,
And that divided by concerns into still smaller bands
That will too soon be blown away as if so many sands
Unless they are, by pressure, made into stronger stone
Which will allow them to endure longer than alone
They otherwise would stand and skills, resisting, hone--
But for their faults it’s wondered if ever they’ll atone,
Unless it is to face that god that, even now, does drone
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