My throat grows hoarse for how I have long raged.
My heart is heavy; it seldom is assuaged.
Attention falters when plays are too long staged,
And knuckles bleed that rap upon the doors
Forever closed, and I can do no more
Than I have done. I may have thought before
That I might move some hearts and minds to me,
To fight against the Stupid God to free
Those from it who would gladly from it flee,
But striving that I do seems all in vain.
That those who want to flee it have is plain;
The rest seem with it happy to remain.
They dance and sing, an orgy of delight
They carry on amid the spreading night.

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