When God died, his creatures went to pieces.
Herrings painted the town red, drank like fish.
Lambs gambled, butterflies had a flutter.
Pink elephants ducked, fearing flying pigs.
Willows, unashamedly pathetic,
wept. Determined prophets had a field day,
hedging bets. Caged in the latest theories
then dissected, nightingales had no chants.
Darwin was blamed for backing the better
but he'd said stocks could go down too; the best
suited survive. So in their best black suits
man, God's favourite, packed into Bank and
Temple mourning his loss, selling futures,
analysing chaos for all its worth.
Tim Love