The Preacher's Kids
and post notes and photos about your poem like Brenda McGrath.
We were preacher’s kids in a little Georgia town,
And knew more Bible verses than anyone around.
It was hell, fire, and brimstone three times a week,
Sitting on the pew trying not to make a peep.
If we chatted in church Dad would surely frown,
And point his finger to silence us down.
Hoping he would forget when we got back to the house,
The rest of the service we were as quiet as a mouse!
Copyright © Brenda McGrath | Year Posted 2016
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