This soil is awf'ly hard to till;
I wouldn't have to do't
If Eve had never come along
And offered me that fruit.

She said the serpent tempted her—
That subtle, talking beast:
He said it would be good for us—
A juicy, tasty, feast.

He said that it would make us smart:
We'd know both bad and good.
He said we'd be one-up on God;
Eve thought we really could.

Of course, she didn't tell me this,
Did not his tale repeat.
She handed me a piece of fruit
And said, "Here, Adam, eat."

So how was I supposed to know
We'd be offending God—
We'd be thrown out of Eden's glen
To till the rock-hard sod?

I don't see why He punished us
And threw us out the gate:
'Twas He who made me out of dust
And gave me Eve as mate.

He made the beasts—the serpent, too—
And every single tree,
Including that whose tempting fruit
Made us as smart as He.

The serpent, Eve, yes, God Himself
Have much to answer for.
It's all their fault I'm plowing dirt
Outside lush Eden's door.

Beth Robinson
April 23, 1995

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