The God of Meanness

There is a god of meanness.
And I have seen him, whining on the mountain tops.
He looks like an overweight Viking.
And his name is Bog Mog.

I came to his arid worship 
after many long years of searching.
Searching for a truth
that would not disturb 
the untruth.

As I child I went to church with my parents.
There was splendor and ceremony.
Sermons and singing.
Love and harmony.
But no candy.

When I attained to man's estate
I struck out on my own --
looking for a church
that gave out candy.
For smooth words that didn't 
take too much thought.

I tried the Franklin Mint.
Too detailed.
I attended Rotary Club.
And ossified.
I stood naked on a beach
in Cambodia,
welcoming the sunrise,
yearning for enlightenment.
I came down with contact dermatitis.

I read the Quran. And yawned.
Mary Eddy Baker had nothing 
to say to me.
Ditto Madame Blavatsky
I discovered an Indian restaurant
that offered spoonfuls of 
sugar coated fennel seeds
after you paid your bill.
And was content.
For a while.

But when Bog Mog called to me.
Called to me to worship his mole hill.
To mutter and peep.
Then.
Then I knew it was not candy I wanted.
But a red necktie and to greet each morning
with a fresh peeve.
O Bog Mog --
give me thy pettiness
until big things turn to dust!