God made a wigwam. Saw that it was good.
He jigged Stan and Marge, plus two cute daughters,
Sam and Betty, who wished no one ill will,
except Boris, the boy who lived in the ranch house next door.
He pot shot their feet as they danced on the ground sheet
spread over their floor, while Stan and Marge hunted in superstores
for provisions and feathers to adorn their beautiful leatherette head bands.
Then he made rain, preceded by thunder and shots from a blunderbuss
to blow them asunder if they strayed near the ranch house,
and Boris’s daddy cut off their guide ropes and the wigwam fell down,
while he made a hanging noose for those who might choose to climb over his fence.
Next, God made work for Stanley and Marge, to earn them some pay,
so they could stay in the barn built by Boris’s father. “Work is the way,
for too much play sews foul thoughts in the head, and sleeping in bed,
though exhausted, half dead, is no fun, for any old son of a gun,
and makes me no money. So spake Boris Senior.
Years later, God made Stan and Marge old. They could work no more,
daughters long flown to the city, a place with no pity, working the streets
to buy bubble gum and pop corn, treats to which they got quickly addicted,
and then they were no good for no one or nothing.
So Marge and Stan, without even a roof from a house on their heads,
cast out with no bread, were pretty soon dead, and were very surprised
that God had told lies, when they discovered no heaven existed,
nor hell as well, so that Boris’s daddy for the good times he’d had at their expense,
on the day he came knocking, would get the same recompense,
and God saw that it was good, or maybe bad,
to create a world packed with those who’d been had.