Looking through pasts looking glass
there sits a soft and gentle lass
hands folded in her lap just so
prepped and polished...six in a row.
Some hymns sounding like a dirge
her eyes well up, tears on the virge
though etched in stone for mocking birds
dutifully she sits, not to be heard.
Sandwiched on the cold hard pew
distractions in her birds eye view
light up her Shirley Temple cheeks
before HE gets up to speak...
A sea of fur and fancy hats
doth her tearless wiggles combat
big hairdos and polished nails
frills "worn for God" tell her a tale.
Still waters prevail across the chruch
as HE saunters to his royal perch
she shakes in her patton leather shoes
as HE steps up to spread good news.
HE calls a sin a sin and a spade a spade
to those ensnared amidst the hat parade
hell fire and brimstone...his lightening rod
as HE tries to win urban souls for God.
She vows to ne'er do one thing wrong
as the sea swells with the invitation song
swallowed by giants in their Sunday best
an impressionable heart has been impressed.
