Will you be such a flower grown
As will be by Stupid God known
As beautiful, with pleasant smell,
Ready-made to bouquets sell--
And knowing of Stupid God’s taste,
To other purposes but a waste?
Will you be content to adorn
Stupid God’s table, to be worn
As ornament upon its brow,
Seen in only a brief now
And soon forgotten, cast aside
On trash heaps that none can hide,
Filled as they are with devotees
That Stupid God looks on and sees
Not, save as statues to its deeds?
Is it such treatment your soul needs?
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