Preacher, Don't Send Me

Preacher, don't send me

when I die

to some big ghetto

in the sky

where rats eat cats

of the leopard type

and Sunday brunch

is grits and tripe.

I've known those rats

I've seen them kill

and grits I've had

would make a hill,

or maybe a mountain,

so what I need

from you on Sunday

is a different creed.

Preacher, please don't

promise me

streets of gold

and milk for free.

I stopped all milk

at four years old

and once I'm dead

I won't need gold.

I'd call a place

pure paradise

where families are loyal

and strangers are nice,

where the music is jazz

and the season is fall.

Promise me that

or nothing at all.