  Up into the sky I stare; All the little stars I see; And I know that God is there O, how lonely He must be! Me, I laugh and leap all day, Till my head begins to nod; He's so great, He cannot play: I am glad I am not God. Poor kind God upon His throne, Up there in the sky so blue, Always, always all alone . . . "Please, dear God, I pity You." Or else, sitting on the terrace of a cafe on the Boul' Mich', I sip slowly a Dubonnet or a Byrrh, and the charm of the Quarter possesses me. I think of men who have lived and loved there, who have groveled and gloried, who have drunk deep and died. And then I scribble things like this: |
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