Jashmina, what do you think of me…? 

Do you think I’m such a masochist 

that I should be perpetually kissed 

by treachery and torture all the time? 

Are my patience and sublimity my crimes? 

That if I endeavour to defend and protect myself 

I must be excruciatingly punished without relief or help? 

Is that the stuff that me, God, should be made of? 

In his duty, he seldom cried, blinked or coughed! 

Is selfless sacrifice only plagued by suffering? 

I always worked to stop the alarm bells from ringing! 

But does it make a difference to crimes’ henchmen? 

They are always selfishly self-seeking and capitalising, then 

Jashmina, do you have an answer to this parody? 

Is your love for me so hopelessly and neglectingly tardy? 

When do you think that I, God, should assert myself? 

Is it only when the universe’s clock strikes twelve?