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Poem	If I could practise what I preach, Of fellows there would few be finer; If I were true to what I teach My life would be a lot diviner. If I would act the way I speak, Of halo I might be a winner: The spirit wills, the flesh is weak,-- I'm just a simple sinner. Six days I stray,--on number seven I try to be a little better, And stake a tiny claim on Heaven By clinging close to gospel letter. My pew I occupy on Sunday, And though I draw the line at snoring, I must admit I long for Monday, And find the sermon boring. Although from godly grace I fall, For sensed with sin my every act is, 'Twere better not to preach at all, Then I would have no need to practice. So Sabbath day I'll sneak away, And though the Church grieve my defection, In sunny woodland I will pray: "God save us from Perfection!"
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