They labour to discover how
This marvel of a man
Was cunningly conceived of old
Without a master plan
Well fashioned from the finest clay
And set to rule the earth
What mystery of purpose
Seems to cloud his primal birth
The more they look the less they see
The less they understand
How probable this accident
Without a guiding hand
Multisensory perception
Automatic respiration
Thermostatic perspiration
Self maintaining
Life sustaining
Fuel efficient, trouble free
Plus a lifetime guarantee
The fools, they make machines from steel
So clumsy, so unsound
Yet still provide instructions
For the owners, to be found
The mystery of the dust machine
Still waiting to be heard
Has all along been plainly shown
Within the makers Word. (Gen 2: 7)
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