It was a year ago, I think you'll find,

A Tuesday night, 'bout half-past five or so,

When Grae came here to lose (or loose) his mind.

He'd lost his head, his wits, his way, you know,

For at the start he was so sure he'd be

A writer and a poet bard, but no -

So much to learn, as learn he must, you see;

The rules, some style, a touch of wit, and, well,

Perhaps he'd sort his spelling out, for he

Knew well some words quite short in length, but tell

The boy to spell 'rhinoceros', and then

Observe the word 'rynnowsawrus. Or spell

'Physique' or 'pheromone' and see even

Those simple words become a conundrum

Of such complexity, that God, his Son,

And all the host above would be so glum

To see the mess of words that he had spelt,

Upon the page of virgin white vellum

And then the tears would fall, and hearts would melt

For Man, in truth, has out the window hurled

His mastery of word and senses felt

And He would rue the days to make the world,

Consider lost the time and money spent,

Avert His eyes and see no more spoiled,

Write off the cost of the experiment

And put it down to trial and to error.

He could, with this in mind, next time, descend

Unto the Earth a few more times, aware

That, left alone, low man will mess things up

And act as if there's no Creator there.

This time, at least, my God has filled the cup

And left to us the choice of how we sup.