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.

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