The wrinkled citrus avatar might well be pushed aside,
Its too-small hands may not suffice its ignorance to hide
And centaur-stance be broken as some clamber off the ride,
But many still will be the back end not on film espied,
And those who'd drink the orange juice squeezed from a fruit decried
By Rosetti's twisted market vendors will not be denied
Their long foul draughts, if not from hoary hairy toadstool pried,
Then maybe drawn from still red pools left by those who have died.
They listen, after all, full eager to those who have oft lied
And form a partial jury against which some have been tried
And been found guilty of such sins as sinfulness belied--
But truth matters but little with Stupid God's arms stretched wide.
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