In the plains of
the States once lived a sculptor
Who attended the whims of God
in plaster,
And upon a
divine he shaped a statue
Whose specific portrayal had spoke her
Virtue
As the
Lord spoke a term his
nomenclature;
But the artist, in awe, could whence
not amuse
So that both his and God’s attentions
diffused,
And as God’s were so great, the rains would decay
The
man’s home, and his work, most every day –
And the man
turned to wheat from disuse.