Momma sat me down here
And I gotta be still
While the reverend up there
Flap his arms all over
Like a big old crow
Gotta have me some church

Lotsa ladies standin in the choir
Where Miss Louella singin bout Jeeesus
She sing loud and wobbly
Her mouth big as a cave
Sound like and old screech owl
Gotta have me some church

Jamie-boy he sittin
A couple rows down
He wiggle his ears to say hello
So his momma don’t pinch him
For for gawkin around
Gotta have me some church


Author: Virginia DeBolt

Writer and teacher who writes blogs about web education, writing practice, and pop culture.

4 thoughts on “Church”

  1. I used to count shoes in Quaker Meeting for Worship. How many pairs of shoes around the circle? How many brown? How many black? How many crossed ankles? How long ’til the kids could leave the oppressive quiet and go to First Day School for stories and art?

    I didn’t dare look higher than the shoes. Gotta at least appear as if I were concentrating. In serious meditation. “Centering down”, whatever that meant. Finding the “light of God” within me, as it was within everyone. Grownup-speak, that was. Must be grown up thinking.

    All I knew was I hated sitting still, and counting shoes helped me not to wiggle.

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