Somewhere between Sodom and Zoar,
My statue stood. How can it be my fault
That he refused to go up to the hills,
And in the plain, I was turned into salt?
Things went badly for those three, when I died
And they were shunned. How can I be to blame
That they were driven to the hills at last
And, in their loneliness, fell into shame?
If I’d been there, he’d not have been a drunk,
And those wayward daughters would have behaved.
And even though they threw us out of Zoar
I guarantee, we’d not live in a cave!
Abraham saved us twice. What a fine man!
What a shame that, as fire fell like rain,
I turned -- and from that, two grandsons were born
Who later would be his descendants’ bane.
November 18, 2010
Copyright by the author