I think He was a little boy
Who thought and found the world a toy

Which He had made, and had not made
any better than other things He played

With: who threw and bounced it on the ground
With other things that couldn't be found

When it rolled away. No one cared
If one grew fat and the other shared.

That was no design and no intent.
It wasn't anything that He meant

Either. And if He didn't know any
Better that's the truth about many

Things, if not everything, that occurs.
It was merely one of many errors.

If He'd have recognized His inimitable style
He'd have looked for us for a little while

And would have looked a hell of a lot lower
And have found us in this stinking sewer.