We speak of the fall, and I think he did,
that man born a man and never a kid.
He tended the garden according to plan,
but lonely was he, this overalled man.
The bones all around him just slightly askew -
the grizzly, the wild hare, the common house shrew.
So one weary day he left barrow and tool,
took off his gloves and lay down in the cool.
Then God dreamed a keeper, not fish or a stone,
but flesh of man's flesh, bone of man's bone.
Sharp pain in his side woke the prince from his nap,
he stretched perfect limbs and adjusted his cap.
For a fella at naming it seemed since day one,
he stood before Eve twitterpated and dumb.
She grinned with the evening's dew still on her lips,
then clavicles, breasts, and mercy those hips.
Shucks, Lord, if she's not the fairest of all.
God smiled on creation's most beautiful fall.