CREATION MYTH
God’s daughter in her pinafore kept blocks,
With which up in the clouds she had learned to play.
But when, tired and bored, she put them away
She couldn’t fit all of them into the box
In a proper, neatly ordered display.
Now God was asleep, strict and orthodox.
So feeling safe, she dropped them, sly young fox,
Made straight for a fine angel made of clay.
The blocks then tumbled through the cosmic void,
Arriving at an empty planet, where
They stayed right in position as they’d been hurled.
Most fragments as hills and dales were deployed;
The bits that were intact formed here and there
Great cities and small hamlets through the world.