I am the Sacred Flittermouse,
The God of all the Gongs.
I’ve got the skills, I’ve got the nous,
I do not moan, I do not grouse,
I am the Singer of the Songs,
I am the Righter of the Wrongs,
And Master of the House.
My Mirrors tell me what I’ve got
And where I have to go,
And who is who and what is what,
And stratagem and counterplot.
They tell me what I know I know
And what I say and what is so
And what I know is not.
God probably does not exist,
Or if he does he’s dead,
Or high, or permanently pissed,
Or on the take, or on the list,
Or off the wall, or off his head,
Or that is what the Mirrors said,
At any rate, the gist:
A clang of Gongs, a clash of Brass,
A firmament of Gold,
A kiss-the-book, a kiss-my-arse,
A whisper to the shivering grass,
A tale untrue, a tale untold
(But very strange and very old),
That God is in the glass.