A Poem for Earthlings at Christmas
(12/13/17)

Gods were sitting around talking
About their various universes
What irked them, you know
How it was a pain in the ass to police them
How you had to keep from stepping into
black holes
Being sucked inside out
Stretched the length of time and space
(hard on the digestion)
God Bob talked about insectoid creatures inhabiting
over ten quadrillion planets orbiting
one sun
And how they were all quite content
with cats, music, good books
Said he couldn’t figure it, didn’t question it
God Leon remarked on how his universe had rid itself of
all life except plant
Every planet an Eden, he boomed
God Frank said he was quite happy as his universe was
Just one big musical note
(Cautioned God Leon about precocious monkeys)
Then Old Rummy God showed up and they all stopped talking
Old Rummy stank of dumpster rind
His pants half-way down his hairy ass
Grimy and too big
He kept pulling them up with one hand
Toting a half-gallon
of Trader Joe's Scotch with the other
Matted stained decorated with food beard
All the various Gods began pulling on their own
Tugging at their togas
Hemming and hawing shifting on celestial haunches
“Say, there,” and “Howzitgoin’?” and “What’s the haps?”
Old Rummy sat his giant hind between a couple of nebula
Farted loudly (destroying several billion galaxies)
nodded to the others, had a drink
“How’s uh. . .” one of the Gods started to say
“How’s WHAT?” said Old Rummy. “How's fuggin' WHAT?"
"Well, uh. . ."
"You mean. . .uh. . .EARTH? Drool, drool. . .”
The others nodded sheepishly, tried to smile
“Thoughtjoodneverasssk!” said Old Rummy
who tossed his scabrous head back and laughed
A million-year laugh, burped, wiped his mouth
With the back of a crusty, liver-spotted, crepe-skin hand
(Then wiped it on his pants)
“Earth is a goddamned fuggin' stink
A travesty that looks GORgeous fuggin' blue from a distance
Blue like Van Gogh blue. . .
But up close it’s puke frickin' city, baby
First it was just molten shit roiling y'know
No biggie
But then it got assbitin' cold
An' then nice and warm an'
Chrrrrrist! All sorts of crap happened you wouldn’t believe and then amoebas---
I liked amoebas, only one goddamn cell
Low maintenance!
But you can't trust 'em, the bastards, they turned into dinosaurs
Didn’t like those dumbasses worth a damn all they did
was lumber around and eat, shit, kill, eat, shit, kill
But you know, then, well, humans, well, fuggin' humans, oh my God
So t’speak hahaha
---Talk about eat, shit, kill!”
God Bob sort of shuffled his feet and said, “Well, yes, but---”
Old Rummy cut him off
“Yeah, I mean a few of them did try, didn't they. . .
Fuggin' Shakespeare and Salk and Emily Dickinson and Beethoven and Jesus and Clara Barton and The Beatles and George Carlin but
It was all spitinthewind. . .”
None of the other gods bit, took the bait, tumbled, they all
Just sort of rocked back and hoped
somebody would change the damn subject to football or cars or something
but no one could come up with anything fast enough so
Old Rummy kept on
"Horse sense is sense that keeps horses from betting on people! Urp.
W. C. Fields said that."
Which reminded him of his bottle, from which he glugged
“Fuggin’ humans are fuggin’ killin’ the fuggin’ Earth,
Eatin’ it, shittin’ it, killin’ it!
Killin’ all the poor fuggin’ animals
Killin’ all the poor fuggin’ trees
Killin' all the poor fuggin' bufferties, flubberties. . .you know
They steal an' cheat and dirty everydamnthing with their gimmegimme 
An' clear their consciences with idiotspeak religious shite I never said
in the first place
An' they bitch and gripe and whine and preen
about racism and discrimination and sexism and money
And Kim Kardashian’s horse butt
And lie about every fuggin’ thing anybody can lie about!
I mean they lie like it's plantin' roses or singin' like Caruso!
Shee-it. . .
If only it was funny, I could at least find some. . .entertainment value
(He pronounced the term with upper-class British twit flourish and rolled r)
I mean it’s not even that it’s disgusting, which it is, y'unnerstan. . .
It’s that it’s just so goddamned fuggin’ spectacularly,
shamelessly, stupidly. . .stoooopid!”
Old Rummy guzzled the last of the Scotch and did the wiping routine again,
And the burping routine and the farting routine
(Which Earth astronomers saw and labeled a protoplanetary disk)
“I dunno. . .shit. . .I picked up all their bad habits and I don’t give a shit anymore anyhow
About them or my fuckin’ universe or all you pompous bastards I’m really looking forward
To shrinking the fuggin' thing back to the size of a fuggin' neutron and putting it my pocket
And donating it to
To Goodwill or Salvation Army. . .”
God Frank said, “Why don’t you just kill them all?”
“I swore to give 'em free will, dumbass that I am,” said Old Rummy.
“Yeah,” said Frank, “But you’re God. What are they gonna do?”
“I know, I know, but I got my princibulls,” said Old Rummy.
“So you’re just gonna let ‘em foul their nest?” said God Bob, with the lame metaphor
“You got any better fuggin' ideas, Bobby Baby?” said Old Rummy
And Bob and the others shut up and really wanted to just get back to shooting the breeze or playing Pinochle
So they let Old Rummy run his mouth until he finally passed out
slobbering and snorting and mumbling
"Plantin' roses. . .singin' like. . .Caruso. . .Oh thadall shouldcometothis. . ."
“Poor bastard,” said God Bob.

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