In your suit of threadbare cotton,
Hanging on you; limp
Like clothing on a scarecrow.
Your anger at a pocket of void
Is seen in your speech.
Your eyes
Hungrily rove the congregation
Hungrily you wonder why
We present peanuts,
Gifts not befitting of a man of your spiritual
standing
Or endowments.
Judgy Judge you are
Donning the wig of a lawyer
And the robes of justice.
On a pulpit you stand and a gavel you wield
Ready to slam and yell
Guilty as charged.
Guilty of giving an offering
Not Commensurate to a pocket
You wrongfully assume full.
A pocket full of holes
Holes of bills, bills of a family
A family of bairns, bairns of my blood.
Blood needs food.
Judgy Preacher man
Withhold your gavel
Let me offer to Him, not my peanuts
But the gifts from my heart.
That He may accept,
He who knows all
And sees the pocket of all.
Hey Mr. Preacher man.
Drop your Wig and don your collar.
Nkem Oyaghire
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