God’s going to commit suicide when he reads my poems.
He’s not going to believe some of the ideas I thought of.
That one that says,
“dessert first, that’s my rule, dessert last, also cool,
He’s going to say, “Why isn’t this in the bible?”
He’s going to write a new bible that says more about guinea pigs and other rodents.
He’s going to say, this is why I sent my son to die on the cross,
For this very reason,
And then he’s going to create a new rule
Even stricter than the golden rule,
And it will be called the platinum rule,
Where you cant say anything
Without first eating a plate of tarts
And a mug of hot chocolate,
And then go to the mall
To buy a blanket
for every groundhog
disguised as a friend.
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