The preacher lifts his old hand,
“This is where we are meant to be!” and,
The geese croon overhead as the day turns around,
“Here in the country! A mighty place to be for men so small!” said he,
The preacher, or the carney, the very angry canary,
“Here is where the wind blows and whistles across the fields,
Making waves and currents that show early eidolons in the rye,
And here is where the willow trees make curtains
For mid-afternoon ******* with a sultry sweat on the brow!”

The preacher clenches his pink fist,
“Here is where holy work is done,
And God is surely watching!
Here is where the lilacs create a musk that staggers,
And leaves the devil in bewilderment!
The son of God is in your boot,
He is in the locked gun cabinet,
Which you threw away the key!”

A woman drops to her knees,
And I ask why, in which she replies,
“Of course! Of course! I love him! I hate myself!”

Ay, slow and easy,
Her lips took the scenic route.

God!
The ugly and plain,
With pouches and paunches,
**** a dime a dozen,
Come here to settle in the humid heat,
Of a thousand fields spread eagle across,
The American hot bed.

Yes’a, I thinks,
The boonies,
Is where I should be,
When God comes around.

The preacher points his fat finger,
“Leave the city for the gluttons!
Leave it for the sinners! Leave it for the lazy!
Leave it for the intellects of bygones,
And aggravated souls who are not just,
Content with what God has given us!
Leave it for the hounds! We have only to hear,
The gospel of sweet nature like honey dew,
Or golden sopping molasses!”

The sun came in through the stained windows,
Shooting colors across the pale flat faces,
Of the god-fearing townspeople.