From The Bottom Of An Empty Pot

You won't find God Almighty in the
bottom of an empty pot,
God is too classy for beer.

God dines in fashionable restaurants
and orders escargot for entrée,
God's Grange Hermitage must breathe
for exactly one hour,
and the atmosphere must be
Latin ambient,
non-smoking of course.

God wears a well-cut Italian suit and issues
orders to archangels over his mobile phone.

God's organiser is crammed with
important information,
such as the exact time and date
of the last judgement,
the location of innumerable fallen sparrows,
the price of ox-bladders on the
Chicago futures market,
and the name of the winner of the
fourth race at Flemington next Saturday.

God had one son at Scotch College
who used to be head prefect
before he discovered Nirvana and hash,
bloody no-hoper now wears black
and lives in a Fitzroy slum,
Oh well, says God,
I send these things to try myself!

God lives in a double-storey mock
Georgian home in Brighton.

His partner, Goddess,
works out three times a week
at the Pilates centre in Church St,
wears silk leotards and Italian stilettos which
somehow never get caught in tram tracks
or storm-water grates.

At night, before putting the mahabindu to rest,
they discuss exhibitions and ballet,
listen to Bach and Handel on the stereo,
watch the Home Show for tips on
doing up the holiday house at Portsea,
then retire to the softest bed in the universe
where they make perfect, tireless, tantric love.

God is superbly endowed and Goddess enjoys
infinite orgasms.