Classic Poem

It ain't our wickedness alone
That keeps us out of church;
An' so, before you cast a stone
An' leave us in the lurch,
Just see if somethin' ain't about
Besides our mortal sin
That keeps us still a-holdin' out
When preachin' asts us in.

We used to have (I won't say where)
An elder in the place
Who led so loud in Sunday pray'r
It shook the throne of grace.
But all the week to feed his game
The busted swampers went;
He hailed the power of Jesus' name
An' soaked 'em twelve per cent.

Perhaps if eight had satisfied
That shoutin' hypocrite,
Some scoffin' swamper might have tried
To straighten up a bit;
But we dislike the man who tries
To give us title clear
To any mansion in the skies
An' grab our title here.