Fumes

We’re getting high on the fumes

Of supernatural gas.

This whole place could explode

But no one’s got a match

We’re dancing and singing

Like some angelic choir.

We are babbling in toungues

But nobody’s got fire.

Who’s got a lighter?

We all say, “No not me.”

We let widows and orphans

Live on ADC.

We cannot help them.

Churches Ain’t got the funds.

That just isn’t the way

That our business runs.

We need new hymnals, organs,

Green plastic thumb-tacks

And carpets, computers

And memorial plaques.

No aid to the Poor!

No money toward missions.

We need pizza and bowling

And security systems.

To lock down our churches

As tight as sealed tombs

For the day we all die

From inhaling the fumes.