The Last Supper
His lightning hair you have neatly brushed and trimmed;
His earthquake claws you have scrubbed of the stains of uncouth history;
And you have clothed Him in the latest of flattering and fire-proof fashions;
Regal, radiant, and eminently presentable.
You have set His place at the table
With a silver spoon,
A crystal goblet of tepid water,
And a freshly laundered napkin.
At the sound of a knock, like a collapsing mountain,
You answer and graciously bid Him enter;
Wiping his floody feet at the threshold.
You sit decorously in your rickety chairs;
You say your solemn grace--
And under the rushing clouds of that calamitous, oceanic gaze,
You bid your domesticated God
To eat what you have served.