Sunday Sermon
Waste Bin

The Reverend Wright, ensconced in the lounge,
Is working on next Sunday's lesson
And no one's allowed to make even a sound
Not even his baby sons, bless 'em.
On Monday he's full of the brightest ideas
But by Tuesday he's gone off the boil,
He's sure that his sermon will land on deaf ears

So on Wednesday he's back to his toil.
On Thursday he thinks that he might have it right
And gets his poor wife in to read it
But by Friday he thinks, after waking at night,
That it's doubtful who'll actually heed it.
It's all very well that he's preaching the word
But it matters not one little jot
If the villagers think that his sermon's absurd
Then he's hardly improving their lot.
He is anxious to please as he's eager to fill
Those last empty pews on a Sunday,
But he knows it would be a quite bitter pill
If his words went unheeded by Monday.
So Saturday dawns with a wedding or two
And he's desperately racking his brains
He's simply no further, oh what shall he do,
But what if an illness he feigns?
Then all of a sudden he's back on the track
'Be honest, face up to your fears
You've taken it on so there's no going back,'
It's a lesson he's learnt through the years.

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