Walter B Canfield 1872-1914

Walter B. Canfield 1872-1914 It is in my best interest indeed, Now that my name is about to be called, To come forth to the White Throne, To make confession, and to be judged, For my legion of sins and trespasses, Committed in no small part, as The irresistible charms of one Lutie Sayles, Precluded any semblance of forthright fidelity. For she was the devil’s mate, this I knew, As time and time again, She flirtingly tapped my arm with a coy smile, As I passed the collection plate to her at Sunday services, Young and beautiful and available Lutie Sayles, Seated in her usual polished corner pew, With wild flowers set in her brown curls, While I, dressed in clean suit and tailored tie, Privately entertained inside my mincing mind, Not thoughts of Job or Enoch, But secret visions of Lutie and me, Ensconced together on a green terrace, Surrendering to the elements of stardust, wind, And wet puckered lips, Ultimately finding sinful solitude, Under a dying cedar tree, On wind-swept Rideout Ranch. Oh, be not alarmed at these fantasies, Of a man now dead for a century, For church was truly boring, And I, a man and nothing else, Found the winsome Lutie Sayles In my every waking thought. Then it happened, as if by serendipity, I saw Lutie Sayles on the side of Workman Mill Road, That drowsy sleepy day, When Providence appeared as a descending swan, And with subtle all encompassing power, Parted Lutie’s Red Sea, For my charging manly chariot!