The Little Black God

There once was a god
So lean and carefree,
He lived and surfeited
Out of a hole in a tree.

He sat content
In the shade of his tree.
Accepting proferred money
And wine for free.

His life was easy.
His pate was black.
His devotees were few
And he blessed out of a sack.

Slowly, they told the world
Of his many powers,
Of how his magic
Could bring down the stars.

They stood in front of him,
And the crowd only grew.
They chanted his glory
With eyes aglow anew.

They looked at him,
The mighty revered being,
His dusty paunch and scaly skin
This poor great king!

They cringed and they groaned,
They grabbed and de-stoned.
They dug him out of his misery,
And set him up on a golden throne.

His novel abode gleamed.
The marble and the gems,
The mirrors and the men,
Made his worst nightmares descend.

They gave him flowers,
They gave him food,
They gave him bars,
But they didn’t give him the booze.

Oh for a drink!
He cried silently, into the night.
His black devotees heard him,
But were banished from his sight.

The masses prayed to him
And sung praise all day long,
But he shivered alone in the dark
Always, wondering what had gone wrong.

He grew sad and in time,
His powers too deserted him.
His existence was ruined
At one very costly whim.

They all left, one by one,
Just as they had come,
They left him burdened,
Sober, miserable and numb.

His palace was glass,
It cracked when he seethed.
His anger was ineffective.
Since there was no one left to bleed.

But then nature intervened,
As he lay prostrate and distraught.
She seduced him and gave him love,
In the passing draught.

In their silken haze,
They procreated and bore
The offspring that stemmed within
And enveloped him from its core.

He is happy again,
His place in the world restored
He drinks and blesses to his hearts content
As he lives out of his tree hole.


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