It came to him from ages past
From the heroes and poets of each generation
It had endured wars, revolutions, and plagues
It had been spat on, buried, and drowned
All without suffering a single scratch
It came to Mr. Hamilton still bearing some vestiges
Of awe and beauty and terror
He received it because tradition said so
Held onto it for the sake of comfort
In the face of death and disaster it was there
It fed him shallow optimism and cheap cliches
But Mr. Hamilton knew that it meant something more
He put it in a little glass box
Held together with laws and procedures
Embellished with customs and social standards
It was all very well-to-do
He fashioned together some dolls
To sit around and in front of and on top of it
There were Good Manners and Moderation
There were Optimism and Good Sense
All gathered round like little attendants
Or perhaps guards
Then he took the idol upstairs
Up into the attic
Now that it might be safe to touch
He set it down in the back
And began draping the whole place
In sensible philosophy
There was Enlightened Interpretation
A couple sheets of Openmindedness
A veil of Real Life hung towards the back
And right on the idol there was something dark
A cloth cut from the dreadful veil of Nihilism
The largest cut that Mr. Hamilton dared to handle
It all stayed up there for years and years
Collecting dust in the forbidden room
Hidden with all that he feared to look upon
Until the day the whole house shook
It seemed to come without warning
But a backward glance shows all of life conspiring together
From that view it is unthinkable for that day to have been missed
That wonderful, terrible day
The day the God on the shelf got up
Shook off the dust and broke through the glass
Knocked down the dolls and ripped through the curtains
The day idle speculation faced overwhelming truth
The day a man playing at spirituality
Was cornered by the Real Thing
