and Mrs. Wright, heaven-bound
Have come to reckon with the Lord
Lost in the silence they have found
The children are very bored.
cordless organ ups the grind
Mr. Wright hums the lines.
It drowns the feedback in his mind
Much like that foggy Gimli wine.
o'clock, the pastor walks
His Sunday robes across the floor.
Straight across before he talks
He eyes the Lord above the door.
dear brethren," he begins,
"In these vain and troubled times
Be wary of the lure of sins
Scanty clads provoke the crimes."
anointed, now in gear
Hyperventilates in his fear
His terrifying love of Jesus
Condemns all things made to please us.
on the Bibles
Bleating for salvation
Raising Hell for all the idle
And those who run the nation.
their Eaton's neatly creased
Clustered in their hardwood pew
The congregation freshly fleeced
Snuffles with the winter flu.
Thumb in Bible
Wears her faith
Much like a bridle.
Already shorting out his brain
Nick poke-checks old Nellie on his right
Wonder will he score tonight...