Preacher Man
He greets them at the big oak doors
To bring them in can be a chore
His words are smooth, he’s full of charm
They have no clue he means them harm
They wear their best amongst the pews
Big hats, fine silks, and fancy shoes
It’s your soul he says he’ll reach
But he don’t practice what he preach
As he stands there all puffed up
He scans the crowd for new young fluff
Pass the plate and get them dollars
Now lift your voice to sing and holler
Yes he spews his babble rot
And takes from lambs who have not
His wife she sits with downcast eyes
And bears the burden of his lies
High above where God sees all
Preacher man he’s gonna fall
Copyright © Robin Dewalt | Year Posted 2008
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment