How long, O Lord? When
How long, O Lord? When will I get what’s coming to me?
How long must I bathe in goat’s blood?
How long must I do Your required funny dance that disturbs my masculinity(1)
and mocks my sensible parentage?
How long will I sit in this desert?
I’d like an answer, pretty damn quick,
and some keen knowledge, so that I will be smart in the head,
for now all look at me agape, and wonder at my stickiness,
and hurl flaming dung into my tent at night.
I’d like to trust in You, much more than I do,
but Your rites are silly, and uncomfortable,
and to be frank, I’m not at all sure that You exist,
or that I’m not just a goat-killing vaguely effeminate loon.
(1) lit., “shrinks my tree.”
Bog Songs, 79
