Your cards are something that I desperately would like to fix
But my fingers are terribly stupid with those witty kinds of tricks

If I could, I would move the conceited constellations by degrees
After re-tossing all your bewitched leaves from your stupid teas

And I don’t know whether God just weighted your dice for kicks
But I wish I could be an ill sport and pick for you a face of any six

Because, although I can only see nonsense when you grin about your Belief,
It has moulded you into something perfect
and you deserve all there is of any relief.