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here is little Effie's head
whose brains are made of gingerbread
when judgment day comes
God will find six crumbs
stooping by the coffinlid
waiting for something to rise
as the other somethings did-
you imagine his surprise
bellowing through the general noise
Where is Effie who was dead?
-to God in a tiny voice,
i am may the first crumb said
whereupon its fellow five
crumbs chuckled as if they were alive
and number two took up the song
might i'm called and did no wrong
cried the third crumb, i am should
and this is my little sister could
with our big brother who is would
don't punish us for we were good;
and the last crumb with some shame
whispered unto God, my name
is must and with the others i've
been Effie who isn't alive
just imagine it I say
God amid a monstrous din
watch your step and follow me
stooping by Effie's little, in
(want a match or can you see?)
which the six subjective crumbs
twitch like mutilated thumbs;
picture His peering biggest whey
coloured face on which a frown
puzzles, but I know the way-
(nervously Whose eyes approve
the blessed while His ears are crammed
with the strenuous music of
the innumerable capering damned)
-staring wildly up and down
the here we are now judgment day
cross the threshold have no dread
lift the sheet back in this way
here is little Effie's head
whose brains are made of gingerbread
ee cummings
Read poems about / on: sister, brother, god, music, song, rose
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