After the fifth day

After the fifth day of days
God in man's image put on
the kettle and rested a while,

for inspiration;

he must have shut his eyes
and nodded off, for when
he woke his tea had cooled

and his creation,

still unfinished, too
had cooled and set rock hard.
'It's spoiled! It's spoiled!'

the Lord told Satan.

'And what's it meant to be?'
Satan asked, smirking,
‘It looks too unstable to rest

your feet on.’

Then Beelzebub raised the globe
and span it on one finger
wherefore God drew forth

baring his teeth.

‘Please put that down!’ he sighed,
‘Or wash your hands at least.’
The Devil wiped it with his

handkerchief.

‘Oh I give up with you,’
God said. ‘Be you banished
to a fiery realm, and call me

when supper’s done.’

And he tossed the tainted globe
carelessly out in the yard
ninety-three million miles from

the closest sun.

The Devil served liver for tea
as a placating treat for the Lord,
but God just pushed it around

his plate with a fork,

and while God sulked the Devil’s
grimy smudges and spittle spread
over the earth and multiplied;

in short,

the primeval slime evolved.
Then on the seventh day
one grimy assemblage spoke

the first word.

And with that word all began,
history at last let unfold,
and soon stories of monsters
and heroes were told.

(c) 2013 Slush Poet