I’m not one for what I call “preacher poems”. You know, those nifty little fluffy poems that always go between and illustration and the transition between the second and third points of a three-point traditional sermon. But this one is an exception. Yeah, it might be a little fluffy, but there’s a lot of truth in it, too.
If all that we say,
In a single day,
With never a word left out,
Were printed each night,
In clear black and white,
T’would prove strange reading, no doubt.
And just suppose
‘ere one’s eyes she could close,
She must read the day’s record through.
Then wouldn’t one sigh,
And wouldn’t one try,
A great deal less talking to do?