Number 3. Like all my sonnets, I'm not sure it ends well. Alack.
It's Not the Church -- It's You
The stained-glass saints have mouths no sourer Than your parishioners.' The steeple stands yet proud, erect. Collection plate in fine repair, the churchyard mowed and neatly kept, the sexton dutiful, and even kind, but you of late are grown more shaggy Than any virgin could concieve: goat-footed piper among the halls of beech and ash that grow beyond the gate. Get out from under the chandeliers-- your hymns are all unpsalmed And strangely met. The church committee will call you crazy and be right. But think of it as a compliment: A little panic In the springtime never did no harm yet.