He says the gods go on surviving
On the spirit bread we bring them
Our own souls baked and steaming
That aroma in the morning
Their tongues watering for a taste
Of some sweetness saved
Or even a stale crust to chew
But somehow they make do
On our thin earthly gruel
And get on with their daily tasks
Of plowing and reaping
Pushing the chariot sun
Up over their seeded ground
And doling out the rain
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