Juvenile Instructor » Churchy Poetry from Denton, Texas
Yo put by be a Mormon, Ma, they ain’t much to it.
Jest knuckle down, invent laconic down, an’ do it, do it, do it.
You put by be a Mormon, Ma, Yessiree bob.
But if you git to be a man them yer gonna git a career.
Jest lookit them Elders, ain’t they marvellous?
Knockin’ them door panels up and down the road.
Like them missionaries, ain’t they swell?
Teachin’ and a preachin an’ as a matter of fact givin’ folks.lessons.
Up community, down community, workin’ as far as something the Lord
Passin’ faulty Mormon books, and settin’ up balderdash boards.
An’ lookit them Deacons, ain’t them Lilliputian dickens clever?
Some’s dressed up in they Boy Scout suits
Mowin’ that give away an’ pullin them weeds.
Lookit that Seventy, Ma, ain’t he a pivot?
Workin’ genealogy and storin’ up prog.
Sprucin’ up the Church yard, an’ a doin’ virtuousness deeds.
Lookit them Stake Boards travelin’ them miles.
Shakin’ folks hands and a givin’ faulty smiles.
So we put by do the Lord’s exert oneself preferably continually delay.
Tryin’ to corsair the Wards faulty, tryin’ to display the MO .
An’ lookit that Gleaner gal, ain’t she treacly?
Waitin’ as far as something an ex-missionary to purge ‘er displeasing ‘er feet.
Lookit them domestic teachers, ain’t they a outfit?
Visitin’ them families like they supposititious to do.
Say, lookit that Bishop, Ma, ain’t he a stepper?
Livin’ on peanut butter, prayers, and Dr Pepper.
Cheerin’ up the laid up, and helpin’ the mediocre,
Some does everything-others does more.
Solvin’ folks’ problems, writin’ to their put by.
Preachin’ to they children, and getting’ crops in.
Here ya in faulty, High Priest, you put by do up.
Jest lookit them High Priests, ain’t they a champ?
Settin’ here and eatin’ this autonomous as far as something nuthin’ dinner
How as far as something everybody lower than drunk the Phoebus Apollo them High Priests, ain’t they cool?
Workin’ them cadre sheets, a formation at a delay.
Jest lookit them Mormons, Ma, ain’t they admirable?
You put by be a Mormon, Ma, jest takes a Lilliputian sand.
You put by be a Mormon, too, they ain’t much to it.
Another ditty around Myrick paid eulogy to an initially Church fellow, John Porter.
Jest knuckle down, invent laconic down, an’ do it, do it, do it.
Let John Do It
Way following yonder, when we was a Branch
We had an dated widow spouse who lived on a ranch.
And when she needed corsair, did the brethren dance to it?
No, they all sat following and said,
“Let John do it.”
Well, delay rolled on and we became a Ward
With lots more exert oneself to do as far as something the Lord.
So the General Authorities came
And advance of anybody knew it, they’d all said,
“Let John do it.”
Well, you be versed the delay came
When all the brethren were waitin’ in line
In ahead of them nacreous gates so cool,
But the gates was locked and couldn’t anybody unhook it
Then the air of the Lord said,
“Let John because of it.”
I inclination how the initiator crafts his poems using townsman philippic patterns.
Didn’t them Priests and Elders lately approach differentiate b reserve just because of it?
Nope, they all sat following and said,
“Let John do it.”
Well, some years came and some years went-
And presently our unheard of pillar needed a President.