Preacher Dont Send Me

Preacher, don't send mewhen I dieto some big ghettoin the skywhere rats eat catsof the leopard typeand Sunday brunchis grits and tripe.

I've known those ratsI've seen them killand grits I've hadwould make a hill,
or maybe a mountain,
so what I needfrom you on Sundayis a different creed.

Preacher, please don'tpromise mestreets of goldand milk for free.

I stopped all milkat four years oldand once I'm deadI won't need gold.

I'd call a placepure paradisewhere families are loyaland strangers are nice,
where the music is jazzand the season is fall.

Promise me thator nothing at all.