Song of Indolence and of Experience

Now as I lay me down to sleep,
I pray my God is not a creep.
I hope he's One lets my soul seep
Like oily water into deep

And turbid pools, in which I may
Cavort serenely—angel play.
But if no Heaven anyway,
No Devil neither: come what flay.

Then be I Slave to alcohol
Or Master, bondage sex and all
Those other sorts of kinks, so-called.
If there's no God, I cannot Fall.

So which would I have rather be?
God's Heaven or Felicity?
Mere earthly pleasures, possibly,
Since here and now is where is Me.

Pascal has counseled us to bet
On God and Heaven. I think yet
That I'll keep on with booze and sex—
No guessing then what Good I'll get.

If this seems quite immoral, well,
God needs to make a better sell.
Show me the glory! Don't just tell
How if I'm bad I'm bound for Hell.

Bill Blake, who's dead now, by and by,
Once wrote a poem about a fly,
A simple, subtle poem, but sly,
In which he gave his reason why

The fly was happy, live or dead.
(A wormy rose, though, sick yet red.)
At least that's what I think he said.
His poems are difficult when read.

Do I trust Blake more than my God?
If so, I'd be a simple clod,
Though literate, perhaps a snob
In a beret. Through poems I'd plod

In search of Truth and swell good lines
With which to charm girls to be mine
For just the little bit of time
I'd need to taste of their Divine.

I know. I said I'm off to sleep,
Then went on logorrheically.
Go read some Blake. Do not read me.
I'm finally spent and must now zzzzzzzz....