A Closed Book.
These are devilishly long hard days to be living in
For those devoted to leading sinners away from sin,
Those righteous souls who do as their Saviour tasked-
Saints who you witness rockin’ up to your door, unasked.
Now in this lockdown they can’t answer their Calling,
For those sent to spread His word ’tis Gawdawfully galling;
Pity those fresh missionaries, stuck in the invidious position
Of not being out and about recycling their God given mission.
The constraints of secular law include even the devout,
Even Gods foot-soldiers must toe the line and not step out,
They can’t gather en-masse at either temple or Kingdom Hall,
For Witnesses or LDS’s with OCD it must drive ’em up the wall.
Now social distancing means no neighborhood outreaching;
Ain’t a saint alive who’d deny the lure of back street preaching,
But locked in, forbidden to congregate with others of their flock?
Gazing at their own door, biting their knuckles, so tempted to knock.
Yea, the good and faithful must sit at home, with idle hands,
Call me cynical, but if He’s real I really hope He understands-
If your door rappers see this pestilential visitation as Your test
I take great comfort knowing your troopers have to give it a rest.
At least the Witnesses can kneel- and resole their boots,
And the bros on bicycles can press their shiny-assed suits,
Thanks, Lord, now I have time to seek some signs of my own-
Private Property Keep Out, Go with God, leave me the hell alone.