The Deacon

At church each Sunday, you shout "Hallalujah and Amen!"
Monday night you sneak out to those seedy bars again.

You kneel, pray, and say those loud "Hail Mary's", too.
Then you kicked the dog and beat your wife all black and blue.

You tithe and volunteer to help the shut-ins with ills,
'turn around in the back alley shooting up, taking pills.

You preach the gospel to that pretty lady in the pew,
meeting her right after service when your wife's not with you.

You brag that you've been blessed with a crowd of good friends.
Your put-downs of your own family just never ends.

You're the loudest off-key voice in the whole church choir.
With your pious attitude, no one knows you're a liar.

You worship in great style and in designer clothes,
with The Bible in your hand and your smug, arrogant pose.

Sunday dinner at the table you do meekly sit.
No one but me knows you're simply an old hypocrite.

Keeping up appearances you give the Spirit the glory
I see through the pretense and the lies. I know the whole story.