As stale, burnt coffee infuses the air
I stir with my consumed keg with particular care
The sun’s angry wife, poking me in the eye
Peeling them open, I see Mormons walk by.
In a suit and tie on, one begins to stretch
Facts and Reality; hungover, I wretch
How can he hold Joseph’s book in his pit
While praising the Lord with his convulsing fit?
Then, the merry man meets with members of his flock
Must be a potluck; one carries a crock.
So tightly wound, she must inch down her skirt
To blindly smile at the golden plates from dirt.
Fifty or so enter as I slightly wake
They won’t leave until the cataclysmic quake
Perhaps they’ll pray for my drunken soul;
I slept in my doorway after a long bar stroll.
Dizzy and sick, I finally rise
Was I listening to Smith’s lies?
I stagger for wine to start my day anew
I’m a Catholic, after all, and that’s what Jesus would do.
No comments:
Post a Comment