as days such as this give us pause to reflect, drink in the words of poet e.e. cummings as you contemplate the year ahead.
here is little Effie's head whose brains are made of gingerbread when judgment day comes God will find six crumbs stooping by the coffinlid waiting for something to rise as the other somethings did- you imagine his surprise bellowing through the general noise Where is Effie who was dead? -to God in a tiny voice, i am may the first crumb said whereupon its fellow five crumbs chuckled as if they were alive and number two took up the song might i'm called and did no wrong cried the third crumb, i am should and this is my little sister could with our big brother who is would don't punish us for we were good; and the last crumb with some shame whispered unto God, my name is must and with the others i've been Effie who isn't alive just imagine it I say God amid a monstrous din watch your step and follow me stooping by Effie's little, in (want a match or can you see?) which the six subjective crumbs twitch like mutilated thumbs; picture His peering biggest whey coloured face on which a frown puzzles, but I know the way- (nervously Whose eyes approve the blessed while His ears are crammed with the strenuous music of the innumerable capering damned) -staring wildly up and down the here we are now judgment day cross the threshold have no dread lift the sheet back in this way here is little Effie's head whose brains are made of gingerbread
