Thoughts on a Summer Picnic

O Lord, we really prefer not to know
Just what was in Janet’s casserole
It filled our tummies, and then our colons
Now half the congregation’s groanin’
While the other half, in anxious ranks
Fills the porta-potty tanks

O Lord, please blot from our recall
The potato salad of last fall
This flock is small, we can’t afford
Further decimation, Lord
Hear our voices, raised in praise
Please disinfect the mayonnaise

Can you, O Lord, arrange for rain?
Earthquakes or frogs? Or anything?
This picnic every Sunday noon
Will lead to our embarrassed doom
So unless you intervene, big fella
We’re gonna die, from salmonella

Author: landon

My mom thinks I'm in high tech.

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