Robert Lax
(November 30, 1915 – September 26, 2000)
praise god, though he's no place in any
praise god, though he's no place in any
astronomic seating plan,
sing still his might for still he can
wreak havoc on the race of man.
he still can shrug the earth a bit
to make your standing towers sit
and quite destroy your joules and volts
with mediocre thunder-bolts.
he still can tear your towns apart
while his surrealistic art
grows grass where hitler's moustache grows
and ferns from hirohito's toes
fills frank sinatra's mouth with ashes
and springs a toad from garbo's lashes
and with some slight celestial mayhem
destroys the shrines of martha graham
and porter cole and coward noel
and splits the earth from pole to pole,
or with some ray you haven't found
sink dante's hell-shaft under-ground.
sing still his might for still he can
wreak havoc on the race of man.
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