Walking back home tonight,
I was approached by two so-called Elders.
Envoys of God, out in the mission field
looking for a would-be convert.
Wouldnt you know it?----me.
It was dusk and I was tired.
All the birds were roosting in their nests.
Why the **** weren't we?
Have you seen our type before?,
one of them asked me in such similar words.
As if they had just arrived here from red Mars.
The other had a bloodshot eye
and a cheekbone bruised dark purple.
When I asked him the reason why,
he said, "soccer accident."
I said "******" as I thought '*******'.
Some ogre probably decked him in a fiery dispute
over some finer point of scripture.
Guess he didn't wanna hear.
Hell!, I didn't want to hear.
But what choice did I have?
They were more desperate to accomplish their part
in the great commission, than was my need to "feel" it.
We exchanged pleasantries.
Elder number one said his name was Whitford. He was from Utah.
The other hailed from Idaho.
I had just eaten some bad french-fries twenty minutes earlier.
Then after a quickie sidewalk sermon,
I again started for home.
A funny thing dawned on me then.
If he really had an ounce of wit he would have a Ford,
instead of moving on foot or on some silly bike.
Could cover more ground in less time.
More bibles for the masses without ears.
Then the devil tortured my grisly brain,
implanting a vision of Elder number two punching me in the face
in vengeful spite. Enlightenment. Oh the price we pay