I'm trying too hard.

[Leanne]

I AMs, of course.

There is a bright God of Poetry,
sitting high in cerulean skies,
he is the Keeper of Meter and Rhyme,
he does not eat poems with fries.

He claps His hand and a poet is born,
fully formed, naked and new,
given a stick and a tablet of stone,
still he knows not what to do.

“I ask You, my Lord, to tell me Your will,
“oh, what shall I do with this stick?”
The Lord reaches out and fills it with ink
says “Behold, My Son:
I AM BIC.”