I can't help the feeling, that I don't like kneeling
At church, when I'm stuck in the pew
And the feeling once more, when I'm left on the floor
Is something that I'm known to do
I'm old, don't you see, and the strength of my knee
Is akin to the pain left by gout
So if I pray to my god, he's a lucky old sod
And he'll laugh at me on my way out
For he tests us you see, and the pain in my knee
Is his way of reminding me weekly
That if I do not pray, he'll have something to say
And he won't let me leave the church meekly
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem