Praise God

Robert Lax 

(November 30, 1915 – September 26, 2000)

praise god, though he's no place in any

praise god, though he's no place in any
astronomic seating plan,
sing still his might for still he can
wreak havoc on the race of man.

    he still can shrug the earth a bit
   to make your standing towers sit
   and quite destroy your joules and volts
   with mediocre thunder-bolts.
   he still can tear your towns apart
   while his surrealistic art
   grows grass where hitler's moustache grows
   and ferns from hirohito's toes
   fills frank sinatra's mouth with ashes
   and springs a toad from garbo's lashes
   and with some slight celestial mayhem
   destroys the shrines of martha graham
   and porter cole and coward noel
   and splits the earth from pole to pole,
   or with some ray you haven't found
   sink dante's hell-shaft under-ground.

sing still his might for still he can
wreak havoc on the race of man.