Since he started writing his own hymns, the Cleric has been having the time of
Swedish meatballs? Say no more!
Pop Tarts? How can I refuse?
Four course meals? I have to lose
Some weight—it’s like I’m in a war!
Each platter that they bring my way—
Four courses, flowing like a river—
Lines my stomach till I shiver,
Indicates, as you might say,
One way to make my diet fail.
Of all the things that trouble me,
Their ministration, don’t you see,
Hits me hardest. Hear my tale:
Look at me. Although I try
At every turn to toe the line,
Last night I kind of lost my mind.
Words fail me, and I cannot lie.
Find a chair and sit a spell
Where I can tell you everything:
They’re racks of rib and chicken wing
From kitchen tales too sad to tell.
What’s ailing me? It isn’t right:
The total lack of what they call
Rhyme or reason, for they all
Scheme to make me eat all night.
That servile bunch again draws near,
Gives me, as you’ve understood,
The works. I curse you, you no good
Group of people that I fear!