God loves his little poet so.
And he will never let him go
or leave him in this tainted town
forsaken, fraught and feeling down.
God likes to let his rhymester rest,
beside the ocean, blithe and blessed.
He bears him up on eagle\'s wings
when soul seems sad and sorrow stings.
God gives; when guilt grins in his face,
a homecoming of godly grace.
Towards his wayward, stubborn son,
like loving father he will run.
God smiles when poet\'s sick with with shame
and sweetly he will call his name.
Then gently take him by the hand
and whisper, \"Son, I understand.\"