Born in a village, a little docile sickling,
Clinging to my ma’s sides,
A quiet feeble duckling,
Papa was a preacher, not one that hallowed tithing,
But one that taught the gospel,
Of growth, new birth, and fasting,
He had a bible and a ‘cycle,
A library of pamphlets, a heart you couldn’t syphon,
A simple quiet alto, not T.D Jakes baritone,
A guitar and an old suit, a tune you could recite to,
A piercing look for one, a voice that’s so insightful,
And every day he’d pray, and look to God: he liked to,
He had a bunch of big cassettes, wasn’t too much into pets
Rose Muhando, Angie C, Sharri Martin up in sets,
And every evening he’d play ‘em while I ran around in jest,
He’d play a couple sermons too, getting somber watching
steps,
And cap it off with, “Halleluja!”
What a hallowed daily trend,
On his knees the nights were
spent, cursing demons fighting death,
Papa was a preacher, a sanctimony
model,
A leader of men, never saw him
looking forlorn,
A queer little duckling, he
helped me fight my sorrows,
And told me, “Ace you’re gonna
make it, if in God you trust and follow,”
Papa was a preacher, he never
taught me YOLO,
But quoted Ecclesiastes, on man’s
duty yeah, and sole goal,
Papa was a preacher, a living
towering stalwart,
A heavy handed patron, a gentle
friend no marred parts,
His voice it keeps on ringing,
when life it beats me that bad,
Papa was a preacher, a smart but
humble teacher,
And though it’s overdrive now,
I’m stuck inside the bleachers,
I owe my life to this fact, that
papa was a preacher.
Comments
Post a Comment