Preacher Don't Send Me
by Maya Angelou
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 the grits I've had
could make a hill
or maybe a mountain
so what I need
from you on Sunday
is a different creed.
Preacher 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.
"not what we say about our blessings, but how we use them, is the true measure of our thanksgiving" -w.t. purkiser
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