I don my hat and gloves and hose
to venture out and take repose
in Sunday praise. But waitâOh my!
A score of souls in ghastly clothes.
Her jeans are torn. He has no tie.
A cell phone rings. He must reply?
âWhazzup,â sings boistârous disrespect. Youâre in a church! my eyes decry.
Weâre all Godâs kids, I recollect
and settle down as I direct
a sandaled boy with exposed toes
to join my pew and disconnect.
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