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.
