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The Preacher's Kids

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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 © | Year Posted 2016

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Date: 3/11/2016 8:21:00 AM
Nice poem Brenda, thanks for sharing this bit of your past I presume. Enjoyed. LINDA
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