Hello, Mister. God, or is it Miss, or Missus,
Don’t rush down to smother me with kisses.
Why listen to pleas and heartfelt prayers?
There must be something better elsewhere.
Somebody you can help that has better words.
The kind of holy roller crap we have always heard.

Maybe I can take a class and learn to speak
In Latin or Farsi or go get dunked in a creek.
Maybe I can buy black clothes and a collar
Or stand on a busy corner downtown and holler.
I’d even be willing to suffer in a golden palace
And only drink blessed wine from a silver chalice.
I’d gladly have a television show and do healing.
I’ll gladly lift my arms, overact looking at the ceiling.

I can practice celibacy and ignore my own crotch
I am sure I can. You just sit on a a cloud and watch.
I’m sure I can do laying on of hands quite well.
I can chant and sing and save people from hell.
I’m not too bad to look at and clean up good.
I’m perfectly ready to be a holy person if you would
Just cast your divine magic glance in my direction
And notice the piety and depth of my genuflection.

I have been told of the sparrow’s fall you see
That you’re to be revered on holidays regularly.
When babies die, and any pitiful sinless soul
We are told we are to accept it is part of your role
To take a life, or give disease as it’s all your plan.
That your love and your grace is greater than man
And therefore we must must not question you
And just accept all of the miracles that you do.

My hope is that, if I do it all perfectly some day
You’ll take our earthly pain and suffering away.
No, not mine. I’m being fairly lucky in my life.
I mean the pain of every husband and every wife
And every single person, of any age and station
And choice of worship, in every town and nation.
People at games and parties and battlefronts all
Keep praying for your help. Mr. God, get on the ball!