Classic Poem

Sank is a sinless thing; a saintly clod
Wherein no seed of evil bides, nor germ
Of rank revolt awaits its sprouting term—
Why, therefore, should I be so moved to prod
And kick at him? For I, if I were God,
Could scarce resist to plague this Lowly Worm,
To lash this lumpish meekness, watch him squirm,
And bid his gums bleed when he kissed the rod.

I don't like cooking with the salt left out.
Had I a heaven, Sank should not get in
Unless he fought, or spiced his life with doubt,
Or cursed me once, or pulled one human sin
(Or conquered one!) or somehow lived and proved
He'd blood enough somewhere to make him loved.