Kill Your Mother In Church On Sunday Poem by John Ackerman

she was wearing her Sundays best
but I must clearly confess;
knew it was but a test but now I rest
a hired man with a gun
shoot her down now she's gone
the papers read all red
with thoughts inside her head
running here & their

my momma was a commie
she saved all her money
she was a big phony
full of bologna
now she is gone but her memory lingers on
she was sitting on the right side of the pew
dazzling red dress
pearls in her arrangement;

didn't want to do it but it was too late we set the date
the bullet would seal her fate
but not too late she would contemplate;
it was too late