God, That Old Bastard

God, that old bastard (no father on record)
has showered disfavours on me:
I look sour and obtuse and I’m bald, which reduce
my temptations to screw up my life.
So I’ll just celebrate my wrinkles, my pate;
God’s sins get a waiver from me:
I’ve got friendship and health, I’ve got sex, I’ve got wealth...
but must it all be with my wife?

Robin Helweg-Larsen

If you have any thoughts on this poem,  Robin Helweg-Larsen  would be pleased to hear them.