First Baptist March

These are my church shoes,
Shiny patent leather
Kept clean every week
Tucked neatly under pews. 
Sometimes I forget to take them off and play rough with the boys. 
Momma comes hollerin' 
Then wipes 'em off
So they will be clean on Sundays.
These are my burying shoes,
Red clay caked on top.
Too worn if you ask me,
But Papa died Sunday
And it rained all through the day
Sliding through the mud to get him in the ground. 
Got my shoes all dirty.
These are my funeral shoes,
Dull, black, and boring.
Dare not reflect my sullen face
Posed perfectly in prayer. 
Learned best from momma
At mealtimes and Sundays front row.
Should feel different today,
But the same dirge drums on,
Hidden behind a hymnal.



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