The god scheduled to descend from the heavens
Is ill. They pluck you from the audience and
Spend an hour or so deifying you.
Throwing a gaudy cloak across your shoulders
They wish you luck and thrust you in the machine.
It's only when you emerge on stage that you realize
You don't know the play. No matter. You cancel all debts
Reveal that everyone is a long lost someone or other
And marry to each other whoever looks unmarried.
Some of them look startled or upset but no matter;
We gods are known to be tricksy, untrusty folk.
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