He preached sermons wrot from memory,
a failed minister leading the failed mass.
You prayed for us wayward huddled people,
with your predictions of doom.

A black blazer with a white collar,
you were every inch a man.
You fought in the jungles of Veitnam,
even though you were an Army Chaplain.

Stubble on your face like you didn't care,
you only cared about our souls,
You told Old Maid Betty she'd burn in hell,
if she didn't stop taking pain medication.

To another, you'd point and call out
"I know what you're hiding, mister!"
Funny enough, that poor guy,
dropped his porn mag and ran.

You held your congregations at grease-pits,
and your evening masses by streetlight.
You were the only thing for those homeless people,
a ray of hope for those without.

You talked Jesus, you talked Moses,
I even heard you calling out for Abraham.
You quoted scripture I've never heard,
and I read the bible, they were there.

Some called you mad, others a saint,
or just a loud-mouth braggart fool.
You stood on that crate for over three years,
you never knew a day of rest.

Gary Chambers, or the Prophet,
saved a man's life one night.
Some drunk driver ran a light,
and hit poor Gary instead.

He survived, a trip to the hospital,
and the local church helped him out.
The Prophet got a picture of his makeshift podium,
with roses all around it.

12/27/2003

Posted on 12/27/2003
Copyright © 2024 Jersey D Gibson