Shambling through its dance, the Stupid God laughs,
The braying wheezing along the winds without
Such signs of perfidy as would attract attention.
No curdled milk, nor cast calves, nor withered crops on bough and vine
Announce it. But that it is unmarked makes its evil more
Not less, and that it is unintended--
Because the Stupid God is unable to intend,
Even if its small-handed avatar is
Or the small-minded followers thereof
Who prove the Prince of Fantasists’ words
“To whom only the squalid sounds strong”--
Makes it not less perilous.
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