Who are you, they asked.
They called me God.

It's Ash Wednesday, Mr. Eliot
Won't you please rise from bed?
Won't you take these two little girls to that white church by the stream
to get ashes on your head?

Please, Mr. Eliot.

I do not think he will come outside today.
I do not believe Mr. Eliot will come out to play.

But it's beautiful today.
Mr. Eliot will never say.

Oh divine March Hare,
Don't make me walk to that old white church alone
Don't let me live my life unknown.

Who are you, they demanded.
They called me God.

Emily, Mr. Eliot won't come.

What manor of speaking,
What quickness of tongue
Will ever make Mr. Eliot
Stir and come on

Don't leave these little girls sitting by the stream
Don't leave us alone, desolate outside your door.

Mr. Eliot, you never come around anymore.

Who are you, they screamed.
They used to call me God, He replied.

But God is an old man
Who watched T.V. with the blinds closed.
But God is an old man who eats cheese pizza
And wears white clothes,
And God is an old man
Who has locked up his door.

God doesn't want to come out and play anymore.

God doesn't know you.
God doesn't own you.
God doesn't want you.

He just wants to be left alone.

No one will come to mass with us
A perilous metamorphosis
No one will join us today.
A literary psychosis, and my prognosis:

We'd best just fade away.