I dreamed of writing a great poem
Words that could scald the earth
With the truth but then I woke up
And realized no one gives a damn
About anything I’ve ever written or said
And no, no I won’t go to Ninevah
Why should this prophecy be any different
From all the others
Anyhow can one poem more or less
Matter in the grand scheme
Of creation -- I think not very much
Yet still I must find a way to Ninevah
With or without the help of a big fish
At least that’s what I thought you said
And then there came up
A great and sudden storm
When the sailors drew lots and
I knew it was neither sink nor swim
But inside the big fish that I’d soon
Find myself in
There would be plenty of room
For redemption
And always, always I know
We must keep on singing
No matter how hot it is while
We’re sitting under the gourd
Such are the mysterious ways of the Lord
Sending us truth that proliferates
Like a shrub springing up quickly
Spreading and standing by virtue
Of its own ubiquitous stem
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