There are no few who sing hymns to the Stupid God
Not in unison, but not at all in harmony
And not so much sung as shouted with all force
Hoping to by a gale extinguish the flickering flame of lamplight
But it does not seldom happen that even a small fire is fanned to inferno
By the passing of so much hot air
Or winds that break from canyons between hills
And the deep pits within them
That might as well be taking in as putting out
For there is no distinction in the sound
And little in the smell
That either way provides
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