I do not know who made me...’
Felix Dennis
I do not know who made me,
Still less do I care,
The sheep that dot the meadow
Make no altar there.
Of transubstantiation
Beetles never learn,
The foxes build no bonfires
Where heretics must burn.
The bees that gather honey
Propagate in sin,
Nor do they slay in jihad
Their unbelieving kin.
No missionary weasels
Slither on the sly,
Nor does the dormouse tell me
That I must kneel or die.
Your words are your opinions,
Who knows what is true?
I do not know who made me—
And neither, friend, do you.
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