Inheritance

The meek shall inherit the

Earth or so I’ve heard.

Humans aren’t meek—so it

definitely

ain’t gonna be us.

Maybe it’s why

the Son of God

had said it. We lose our

humility—the very second

we think we’ve snagged it.

I reckon He spoke of

horses—bringing us

to and fro like a humble

rickshaw. Or hauling us

in a carriage

round the park—no place

that is private

for relief—a shovel to

scoop the mess,

couples seeing nothing

but their ass.

The jockey bags the

money not the steed.

It’s the knight

considered gallant

and scores the joust;

the sheriff

not the stallion

gaining glory.

An apple is a piss-

poor prize: “here,

bake your own 

fucking pie.”

Whinny rhymes with

ninny. Its neigh

that goes with sleigh at

Christmas time.

Even Santa

passed them over

for the antlered.

But the Day will come

when all will call them

Equus. None which bear

a saddle, none to feel

the spur, bridles burned

by nostrils spouting flame—

though Eeyore

would like a word—

his countenance

ever-bowed. He’ll say a

donkey uplifted Christ

in a sea of palms; while even

the ponies snickered, the camels

snubbed its tail—

someday to be used in a

child’s game—for such

is the Kingdom of God.

Andreas Gripp

March 8, 2026

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